Mother on the Menu

Notes from the Desk of a Retired Small Business Owner

My high school senior recently applied to college. When I told him I’d proof his application, he considered this a kind, but unnecessary offer. He’d written the thing, pored over it, read and re-read, wrote and re-wrote.

It was done, all locked in, nothing to change, tweak or add.

I mean, sure, if I wanted to read it — if that’s how I wanted to spend my time — I could.

I assured him this was a valid use of my time and also just good practice — to have a second set of eyes on the whole thing, not just the main essay, but also the short answers.

In life, the short answers will get you every time.

So we struck a typo-only deal as the time for elevating thoughts and exploring further had passed. The application was due the next day.

Sure enough, I found a short answer sentence — I think it was the response to something like tell us why you’d be the best college student and/or human this school has ever seen in a quick 50 words or less — that ended in the middle, something he’d meant to double back on, but hadn’t.

But what truly stopped me were the answers to some of his parent demographic questions.

Under mother’s occupation, he’d selected SMALL BUSINESS OWNER.

Under the current status of my occupation, he’d chosen RETIRED.

I asked him if he was referring to the stationery business I had fifteen years ago, when he was in preschool.

It was. I started to laugh.

“What??”

“It is just funny. That was a pretty long time ago…”

“What?? I didn’t know what to say. What was I supposed to say??”

“How about WRITER?”

“Oh, yeah. Okay, sure,” He was at the point where he just wanted an answer key; he just wanted to launch the thing into the ether, not to get into some loaded discussion about what I’ve been doing with my life all these years he’s been around.

“But what about STATUS?” he asked, knowing RETIRED no longer fit.

“UNEMPLOYED?” I offered.

”No. How about SELF-EMPLOYED?” He suggested, smiling, satisfied that he’d upgraded me so easily.

“Sure. Practically same difference.”

And with that, and the other half of that one sentence, the application was complete, attached to a credit card to cover the fees, and submitted.

But here’s my admission: I could not stop thinking about that pulldown menu on the Common App.

I could not stop thinking that what I’ve done for two decades — the person completing the application being a primary beneficiary of that work — wasn’t even listed.

When I laughed about my son’s selections to both of my daughters, neither saw what was so funny, and both admitted they’ve slotted me into similar choices on various pulldowns. This isn’t their bad — I actually think there’s something sweet about any of my kids trying to fit me into some sort of occupation, searching for something in that pulldown that would validate me and my efforts on this planet.

Because I know they think I’m valid.

To them, of all people, I haven’t been sitting here doing nothing.

For them, of all people, I’ve been running around doing close to everything.

But how to articulate all that within the confines of a pulldown?

And then again, hadn’t I done the same thing, scrolling through that list — looking for something in the pulldown that would be recognized as viable — substituting in WRITER, something that I am, and something that I’m proud of, but something I’ve done for far fewer hours and years than I’ve worked at being a Mother?

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I thought about this miscategorization of my employment long enough that I knew I needed to see that pulldown menu again. Maybe I’d missed something??

I could not figure out how to access the Common App without personally applying to college — which probably confirms I wouldn’t get in anyhow! — so I asked a friend who’s a college counselor to send me screenshots of the EMPLOYMENT pulldowns.

I marveled as the screenshots came in, one text after another. What a motley crew of words, and not a like set either — as if someone had broken down and repurposed an old list from the defunct analogies section of the SAT. Farmer, Dentist and Software Engineer seemed duly descriptive — like I get the broad strokes of what you do on a daily basis; Executive, Manager and President seemed open to a lot of interpretation, floating and lofty titles without any indication of field.

I looked at all the choices I, in my current capacity, could’ve gotten away with selecting. I briefly wished I’d checked MANAGER because only I would ever need to know I meant “of expectations.”

Or maybe I could’ve checked PRESIDENT. Surely I’m the President of something.

But mostly I could not believe that this oddball list with all of its oddball choices did not contain me. How DARE these Common App people ignore a whole important group of people? How DARE they disregard —-

Oh wait.

There it was.

On the fourth screenshot.

The choice the Common App people would’ve expected me to make: HOMEMAKER.

The answer had been right there, but both my son and I had scrolled right past it.

I think my son would’ve seen that and skipped it because, like, I’m not in construction?? I don’t think he would see me in that term. It’s similar to when, at the eye doctor, my younger son was thought to have vision problems because he could not name the graphic for a rotary phone.

I promised the doctor this was not a matter of sight, but one of recognition.

Meanwhile, I wouldn’t have chosen HOMEMAKER even if I’d seen it. The term conjures images with which I do not identify. I do not wear aprons, or iron or dust. I am incapable of getting stains out of baseball uniforms and only middling at meal prep. I’ve never defrosted a freezer. At the end of every long day, I do not freshen my lipstick and greet my husband with the paper and his slippers.

If I ever did this, my husband would be certain I was trying to kill him.

No, I glossed over HOMEMAKER because it’s a dated reference, a rotary phone of an idea. But my problem with it doesn’t end there.

My bigger issue is this: why are we culturally more comfortable talking about the place of mothering than the people at its core? HOMEMAKER replaced another place-centering term: HOUSEWIFE. The needle didn’t move much, except to correct the dumb idea that you might be married to a colonial or a split-level. I guess the improvement is that now you’re getting credit for making that colonial or split-level instead?

And, hey, doesn’t every profession have a place where the work takes place? A backdrop to the true industry that’s simply accepted as a given?

If we’re focusing on location, should my husband get new business cards: OFFICEMAKER?

Moreover, I think HOMEMAKER is meant to signal raising kids — like wink, wink, ladies, grab those brooms and sweep those little charges right under that rug — but don’t people without children also make homes?

Or are we to assume they live in plain boxes without pillows, paper towels and other stuff from Target?

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I don’t know what should’ve been in that pulldown list instead. What title would’ve caught my eye and felt like it fit.

I think it’s probably MOTHER. Because like FARMER or DENTIST, you know the broad strokes of what I mean when I say it.

And sure, Mother is a pretty snow-flakey operation — no two versions are exactly alike, so bucketing it, using it as a term of broad definition, somehow feels off.

And it feels fraught. Mother seems to be a term that makes us collectively squeamish. It threatens to divide us. We feel a need to delineate. What kind of Mother? One for whom this is their primary career, or Mothers who work “outside of the home” as well?

If we start down this brambly path, don’t we have to talk about who has it harder? Who has it easier? Aren’t we going to start in-fighting, trying to name the version of Mother that is most Mother?

But isn’t this like trying to decide which paint swatch is more blue? It’s a matter of perspective, and the hue you see is true for you. Besides, let’s face it: any color can make you happy or sad, feel more or less, depending on the day.

Not to mention that in-fighting doesn’t help the whole. Honestly these days, any time I’m arguing with the wrong group of people, I just assume that I’m probably doing exactly what the patriarchy wants, distracted away from the real issue.

The real issue is this: being a Mother is hard, full-time work. For everyone. It’s not the sort of career that allows for an apportioning of effort or mindshare. Sure, you might invest some of your time and energy elsewhere, and you might even get paid for doing so, but if you have kids, you are still a full-time Mother. Full stop.

You are never off the clock.

And the job will keep you up at night.

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Motherhood is the true oldest profession, but somehow naming it has become as dirty as that other oldest profession. It’s the original family business, but we’re meant to mind our own business. We’re supposed to just think of Motherhood as a default setting, just some cost of entry proposition. A given.

But I didn’t enter into this career lightly. This twenty plus years of raising kids wasn’t some happy accident. This wasn’t because I couldn’t think of something better to do.

And I’m not demanding credit because I think I’ve done it perfectly. I’d never say that. Honestly, the only thing I can say with full confidence that I’m truly excellent at is parallel parking. Beyond this, it’d be impossible to maintain perfection over the length of an entire career in anything.

I’ve had days as a Mother that I’ve really killed it, and I’ve had days that have nearly killed me. Like any job I’ve ever had and/or loved, I’ve cried at my kitchen island desk.

And yes, I’m lucky to do this work, lucky I could choose it, lucky I could make it my primary focus. But focusing too much on the luck of it seems to belie the work of it, tends to cast the job in a light of hazy luxury, like I’ve been sitting around living off a winning Powerball ticket (haha — I know, I know: these actually ruin lives!).

But society is lucky too. For all Mothers. For all of this work we do, for all of this rearing of people. Because that is what society and the very existence of every other profession rest on: people.

And I don’t mean some year-over-year improvement of people. I don’t mean that the modern, over-professionalized version of Motherhood is what finally makes the job legitimate. I don’t mean excelling at the administration and management of small, medium or large children, the trend towards perfecting offspring with tutoring and test prep and club teams. This is done, and done widely — frankly it’s hard to live in today’s world and not do at least of some of it, a separate, giant problem — but these pursuits are not what should finally land MOTHER in the pulldown.

I’m talking about recognizing that Motherhood has always been a justifiable, valuable career, even before we placed this careerist overlay. I’m talking about Mothers all through the years, all the iterations of child-rearing through all the cultural shifts, and all the different terms for it: the housewives, the homemakers, the working moms, the stay at home moms.

I’m talking about my mom who never made a Google spreadsheet to organize a school event, or sent a gentle reminder to other parents about turning in class dues; who grocery-shopped for the week with all three of us kids hanging on her and the cart, we begging fruitlessly for sugar cereal, she willing only to buy a bunch of fruit; who made dinner just about every night, before food could dash to your door; who put on our bandaids, and our sunscreen, and our socks and brought us to every appointment; who made us floss; who volunteered at our schools and made our Halloween costumes; who knew the answers to so many, most, possibly all questions without the help of any reference materials; who made us take piano lessons, and who, when the time came, let us quit; who taught us you had to honor a first invitation, even if a better, funner invitation came along later.

Who worked every day such that we might become the people we’d become.

And sure, she didn’t do it singlehandedly. It took both hands! And those of many others too. That’s the nature of this line of work.

Like my mom, I’ve been properly swaddled in the love, care and help of so many people during my career as a Mother. I’ve collaborated with some of the finest — my husband, my family, my friends, nannies, caregivers, doctors, nurses, teachers, coaches, therapists, aides, crossing guards.

I can’t take all the credit for this operation.

But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t take some.

Just like when Bob retires from that bank in the center of town and has a party. Nobody sits there thinking hey wait a minute, Bob’s taking ALL OF THE CREDIT for this WHOLE COMPANY! Nobody sits there begrudging him the recognition. Everybody wants him to get that gold watch. Because it’s widely understood that an individual’s contributions and achievements can be celebrated without disavowing the rest of the team.

So maybe Mothers end up in the grandest of job-shares, relying on our villages, and definitely we still deserve recognition for our life’s work.

And not just in our own homes. To be clear, most of my colleagues and I do not feel under-appreciated in our own homes on most days. And we know the work to be rewarding. Even deeply so.

This is about broader recognition, naming the work, acknowledging the institution.

Here’s a start: MOTHER needs to be in the pulldown menu AND we need retirement parties!

When our youngest turns eighteen, we should celebrate and be celebrated. And right: it’s not like our work is done exactly, but we’re hopefully eligible to move into more of an emeritus type role? (Right? Hopefully?)

Before anyone asks us what we’re going to do now in our empty nests (again: a place!), everyone should think about what we’ve done.

There should be a slide show. Set to emotional music. And toasts. And an open bar.

It should be a chance to look back on all of it, a chance to get teary — of course! — but to feel more proud than wistful, a chance to feel more satisfied than sad.

Because just look at what we’ve done in this long, beautiful career.

This career that we chose. That we love.

Really look.

These kids are readying for a life outside of these homes we’ve made, and they didn’t happen by accident.

These kids took effort and care.

They took work and purpose.

To become the people they’d become.

And they’ve been raised by professionals.

That’s the short answer,

Jen.

Mother

President, jen’s newsletter

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I’m always documenting my career over on instagram: @jenmurphyparker