A Beach, A Booth, and a Moment of Clarity

This week is spring break, and as luck would have it, my dad and stepmom came down to the beach for a few days for a conference. My former-school-administrator dad now works for an architect, marketing their services to schools, so he was manning a vendor booth between sessions. They came through and picked up Sarah Kate for a couple of days, and Nathan and I joined them for the day on Monday.

As I was packing up all of the required baby necessities – diapers, wipes, foods appropriate for a one-tooth wonder – I couldn’t help but think that this little excursion wasn’t worth it. After all, I’d be relegated to a shady spot, working to contain my little Tasmanian devil so he wouldn’t crawl into the pool. Add to that the fact that my dad would probably only occasionally be able to break free from his booth to visit, and it just seemed like a hassle.

We made the trek over and had lunch around the pool. Sarah Kate had a hankering to go to the souvenir shop down the road. My dad wanted us to stop by his booth before we left, as he wanted to go with us but wasn’t sure if he’d be able to get away.

When we walked into the exhibit hall, I felt a tad bit self-conscious because I was still wearing my swimsuit, cover-up, and flippies. I didn’t worry too much about it, however, because I didn’t expect to know anyone, as the vendors were from all over the state and mostly people involved with construction and plant maintenance. We approached my Dad’s booth, but he wasn’t in it, so Sarah Kate, Nathan, and I ventured a bit further into the room to see if we could find him.

As we pushed forward, I saw it – a corner booth with my former employer’s logo. Several marketing people – people I’d once been – stood casually around the booth. Although I hadn’t seen them in eight years, I recognized their faces immediately, and from the flashing smiles of recognition I realized that they knew me, too.

There were smiles and how-are-yous all around, and one person in particular, a former colleague named Ken, came from around the table to give me a quick hug and chat for a few minutes. I told him how I happened to be there (spring break, living in the area now, dad in town, etc.), flashed my brightest “I-used-to-be-in-sales smile”, and introduced him to my kids. After a few minutes, I spotted my dad, said my goodbyes, and walked away with my two kids in tow.

Over the past eight years, I’ve often mourned the career that I left behind. I’ve fought the image of myself as a stay-at-home-mom. I’ve filled my time with volunteer work to keep my career skills up-to-date. But as I walked away from the booth – this brief snapshot of what might have been – I felt oddly relieved not to be working there anymore. Ken had joked that I could easily pick up right where I left off, and I recoiled at the thought of it. Yes, I could, but I don’t want that anymore.

Yes, it would be nice to have more money. Yes, I’d like to be able to hire someone to clean my house instead of doing it all myself. Yes, I do often long for adult interaction. But if I still worked full-time, I wouldn’t have as many chances to take fun photos of my baby as he grows. I wouldn’t be able to clear my calendar for a spur-of-the-moment day at the beach. And I wouldn’t be able to take my boy and the dog for a leisurely walk down by the bay on weekday mornings.

A dear friend once told me, eight years ago when I first said goodbye to my job, “a bad day at home is better than a good day at work”. While I’m not absolutely convinced that she was right, I do know that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.