"I'm Stefanie Hopkins, and I'm a stay-at-home-mom," I announce. Did my voice just waver? I think it totally just wavered.
I was introducing myself to the newest YMCA board members, and as everyone was giving their name and occupation (lawyer, financial advisor), I wracked my brain for the correct job title. Butt wiper? Netflix extraordinaire? "Hi, I'm Stefanie Hopkins, and I'm really good at spraying whip cream directly in my mouth from the can!"
I spend a good portion of my week defending myself to, well, myself. "I have the hardest job out there," I tell my husband. "You could never do what I do." I've always had the utmost respect for stay-at-home mamas, just as I have the utmost respect for women who work outside the home, yet when it comes to my own chosen lot in life, I feel unfulfilled and forgotten. I try and pride myself in raising my daughters to be kind, intelligent, Christian human beings, so why do my cheeks redden when it comes time to announce my career choice? All of a sudden, I get a bad case of inferiority.
My YMCA/WSOY fitness and nutrition challenge ended a few weeks ago, and though I had every intention of blogging weekly about it, time got away from me (hello, hardest job in the world over here!!!) For the first time since moving back from Europe, I started to feel good in my own body again. I've dropped two pant sizes and gained part of an ab. I broke-up with the Cheesy Gordita Crunch. I tried a piece of kale. I can now lift a Kettlebell without thinking of kettle corn, kettle chips, or Ketel One vodka. I even find myself humming as I restart the laundry for the third time.
So there I was, moving along so swimmingly (still in a one-piece, of course), when my voice went and wavered. I went home that day and looked in the mirror and I saw thirty-three looking back at me---a whole lot of sun damage, frown lines, and an empty resume. I've been out of college for twelve years, yet my degree is still inside a dusty cardboard box alongside my fossilized baby teeth and participation trophies. I was going to write a book by now, but instead I'm browsing Amazon for sloth coffee mugs . I was supposed to be a columnist, but I spend my mornings reading the words of other writers. At the very least, I was going to keep up with this pitiful blog. Instead, I'm writing a couple paragraphs every few months and examining my face in a magnified mirror. So what did my reasonable self go and do with all these feelings? Take a walk? Submit a story? Hug my children?
Botox, baby. Yup, said I'd never do it, yet here I am: the Real Housewives of Long Creek. It's almost laughable, though I'm having trouble moving my face muscles at the moment. I won't eat canned vegetables for fear of botulism, but a doctor can inject it straight into my forehead? Shut up and take my money!!!!
Well it's been two weeks: my wrinkles are diminished, but my inadequacies are not---funny how that happens. You can tell me that I'm working on all the wrong things, but I already know this. I'm lazy and vain, but I still have a fairly decent IQ (according to those online quizzes). Instead of my frown lines, I should be smoothing out my diminished relationship with God and strengthening my marriage, but I always tend to go for the quick fixes. Just like how I know that exercising with the amazing and encouraging Angela will leave me feeling healthy and renewed, I still habitually reach for the cream-filled donut instead. We humans are a puzzling breed.
My voice didn't waver at that YMCA meeting because of my job title. I'm raising strong, bright little girls, and I should announce that like I'm a badass CEO. My voice wavers because I seek out things that don't bring me lasting joy. I'm doing my damnedest to fill myself up with emptiness, Casey's donuts, and Botulism Toxin Type A.
I may not receive a paycheck or an annual bonus, but I'm still contributing. My job may not require a bra or a briefcase, but I have the privilege of shaping little lives. I need to accept that there will always be a stigma attached to the stay-at-home-mom, and the best I can do is refuse to let myself do the attaching.
