Home Is Where My Heart Is  

(This is the third of three posts this week examining what "home" means to me.)

There are days when my alarm goes off in the morning that I just want to crawl back under the covers. It's not because I yearn for more sleep, although some mornings that is definitely a possibility. What I really desire is more time with G.

When I first got pregnant, it was understood that I would return to work after giving birth. Like a lot of moms, I wanted to stay at home, but it wasn't really an option for us. DH & I had done an excellent job of saving up a nice chunk of change to carry us through my extended maternity leave (four months), but we both knew it wasn't enough to get us much further than that. Also, before giving birth, I liked my job. I enjoyed the daily challenges it entailed, and relished in the friendships I made in the office. I felt fully confident that I would be able to do it all, have it all, when I was a working mom.

I couldn't have been more wrong. The quality of my work hasn't suffered since returning to the office, but my passion for it has most definitely waned. Now, home is where my heart is. When I'm in my morning content meetings, I find myself wondering how G's morning nap is going. As breaking news happens, my mind wanders to what my daughter ate for lunch. Even as my show is on air, my body starts to crave its impending reunion with its heart. Being a working mom is possible, and it does have its benefits. And she is thriving at home, where her dad and her sitter split child care duties. She's healthy, and most importantly, she's happy. But she's not with me. And I don't get to see all of those special moments. And that just kills me.

I find myself having a constant, inner dialogue, in which I devise schemes that allow me to be a stay-at-home mom. DH gets a promotion, affording us a little extra cash. I find a job that allows me to work from home. We downsize to a smaller house and chop off a large portion of our mortgage payment. So far, those dreams have been little more than delusions, and none have come anywhere close to fruition.

I love my career. I love my co-workers. But I love my family more. And if I could find a way to add a few extra hours to the day-- so I could spend just a little more time with G-- I would. But I'm not God. So for now, all I can do is pray to Him for inner peace, to ease my guilt, to allow me to truly believe that quality of time really is more important than quantity of time.

But it's tough. Because, really, there's no place like home.