Homemaker

Shortly after arriving in Washington, DH and I were at our bank opening a local account. (We had discovered that each account is managed by the state where you open it, so we actually had to close and reopen an account with the same bank. Don't get me started.) Anyway, we were chatting away with the customer service officer about being pregnant with our first child, relocating for DH's job, blah blah blah. She set up the accounts for us, and we left with more paperwork to add to our growing collection. I glanced down and noticed that my occupation was listed as "homemaker." I thought this was odd, considering we never discussed my career (she didn't ask), and especially since Seattle is so liberal / politically correct, I would not have expected her to assume something like that. There was a moment of fleeting annoyance for not getting credit for the hours every week that I spend bowing to the corporate gods, but I let it go.

A few months later, I was speaking with our loan officer at another bank to complete the mortgage application. When she asked about my employment, I explained that I work part-time. "We don't consider part-time income when approving the loan amount," she informed me. Fair enough, no problem. If we really need my measly paycheck to afford the house, we are in BIG trouble. Later when the paperwork came to me, I was again listed as "homemaker."

Maybe they knew something I didn't?

Yep, as of this morning, I have informed my oh-so-understanding soon-to-be-former boss that I'm chucking the shackles of corporate America to surround myself full time with poopy diapers and drool. In other words, I'm moving up in the world.

As you may know, I've struggled with this decision for months. But over the past week or two, my heart and mind have come to unreservedly agree that it's time for me to quit my job, and I feel very at peace with it. Here are the main reasons, in pictorial form:

It's that face, I can hardly stand it. The kid smiles and reaches for me, and I'm in pieces on the floor. I can't possibly work upstairs when my little buddy is downstairs calling for me! He wants his mom, and you know what? His mom wants him, too. Paychecks, promotions, and personal satisfaction be damned.

I'm so proud of my DH, who not only will be working extra hard to help ease the financial burden of me staying home, but who also had to balance his concern for our bottom line with those less quantifiable family concerns in order to agree. In return for approving my proposal to begin what I am calling my sabbatical, he had some reasonable demands and some unreasonable demands. I do expect that he will have to touch the iron again at some point in his life. Even just to put it away when guests are coming over.

Now I have to get started equipping myself for the life of a stay-at-home mom.

• Jogging suit
• Chocolate bon bons
• Pearl necklace
• Favorite soap opera
• Mini-van
• "My kid is an honor student at Gymboree Play & Music" bumper sticker
• Apron
• Earplugs

On an unrelated note (or is it?), you must make this recipe for dinner. We tried it for the first time last night. It's amazingly easy and worth every gram of fat you'll be working off on the treadmill later.