On Motherhood, Working, and Vulnerability

On reaching the end of a very difficult day of job hunting, this children's book popped out of the recesses of my memory. I always thought it ridiculous that the baby bird in Are You My Mother? could be so confused as to where it belonged and who its mother was... particularly, when the little hatchling encounters the backhoe, "Snort." But sometimes you have to give an idea some time, or a few decades, and it all becomes clear in a way that feels much too personal.

As of today, I have been unemployed for a year. That's a dangerous thing to admit in a public space... we look to cover up gaps like these in our work history and even admitting to reading specific books as a child can date you in the most unfavorable way. But having booked as many hours in therapy as some moms spend on the soccer field, I'm going to err on the side of being authentic (however vulnerable it might feel) because the world has plenty of imposters in play. I'm fully aware of how many people share my reality and also how fortunate I am that my family has a steady income to cover our expenses, but these are not the epiphanies I've dug up from my childhood.

The first point of irony is that I am a mother to three kids adopted from foster care. Several years ago it occurred to me that our life together is like building a nest on the ground--there is no way to escape vulnerability and the threats against the day cannot be counted, you just go about life prepared for their sudden arrival. The chaos is real.

Disruptive, traumatic events have a way of jarring our sense of identity. Of course I've seen this play out for my kids, but not until I lost my job of 18+ years did I really have to face that reality for myself. Who am I and where do I fit in?

I can't pretend to be a woman who finds total fulfillment in being a mother. I admire women who feel that way and I even sometimes wish they would donate some of their gentility to my cause, but I'm not sure they could survive down here in the brush. On that topic of causes and not knowing yourself: I can recall a college friend gifting me a T-shirt that read "So many causes, so little time" ... with about twenty causes spelled out. I thought it a strange gift at the time because as much as I loved them, I'd never tried to save the whales. That said, I don't mean to suggest that being a mother is a cause for me; it's a calling. I felt the same about publishing.

It was Dr. Mark Walters that got me a call with his editor and nudged me toward publishing. I don't remember the editor's name and she made it very clear that she didn't have time for me, but I flew toward that light like a miller moth drunk on the fantasy of working in literature.

After a few years in academic publishing, I ended up in endurance sports. Having recently discovered triathlon, I thought it would be a fun gig. I never intended to stay so long, after all, as a groundling you don't go out of your way to shake things up.

And I loved my work. It was the perfect cocktail of relationships, content, and craft. As I became more competent, the books became more complex. I had a space to try new things and pursue possibilities, all the while being trusted to bring someone's hard-earned experience or knowledge to life.

Since losing my job I've spent a lot of days wandering around, looking for my proverbial mother. I've encountered some Snorts, and along the way I'm sure I have at times appeared as ridiculous and uninformed as a hatchling talking to a cow.

My job (or lack thereof) is not my identity, though I'll admit to blurred lines there. It was, however, my security, my more certain thing in a chaotic life. But it shouldn't be my security either. While I'm not ready to add that dumb-ass frame to my LinkedIn page, I'll take the vulnerable step here.

I'm a groundling, open to work.