I have a secret confession to make.
I am still figuring out what I want to be when I grow up.
I thought I had it all figured out in 1995. A mom. That is my life’s destiny. A wonderful, giving, nurturing full-time Mom. But, then in 1998, we kinda needed some cash too and that whole plan went awry. I was suddenly a Working Mom, a whole mother beast entirely. Trying to fit in 2 worlds but, not giving my all in either. I did not like being a working Mom, I wanted to devote my time to my kids entirely and get the chance to watch them grow, sick days and all.
So, after much deliberation and cut backs – I was back home in my nest surrounded by my little chicks.
And then, a funny thing happened. When my little ones started going to school full-time I realized I no longer needed to be home with just my laundry and dishes. I needed more stimulation and my brain felt smooshy. I decided to follow a long-time passion and write. I had always written for myself and loved that feeling of accomplishment. That feeling of peeking inside your own soul and seeing what lay beneath. That story that lay under it all. I felt I was ready to share that with the world. So, I started a blog to test the waters.
Blogs are fun, but they don’t make money. So, I took my skill and I began a freelance business providing all sorts of fodder for my words. My brain felt full of inspiration while my bank account got little bumps of joy. I was happy. Until, I wasn’t.
I realized that in writing for others I was not touching souls, uncovering layers and delving into the deep. I was writing websites, and creating Top 5 lists and getting paid, but it felt like – work. It’s strange because you spend your entire life wishing and wanting and dreaming and suddenly you’re there and it’s like ‘meh’. So, now what?
I am a firm believer that if you love what you do it will never feel like real work. I mean, of course some days will, I get that. But, I want to like what I do, love getting a bonus of being paid for work I am proud of.
I discussed this with my Mom Friends and my husband (my best friend) and have discovered I am not alone. I am in a boat so full of people who ‘Don’t Know What To Do Next’ I wonder if anyone really knows. Does life ever reveal the answers?
Last week, I bought an antique piece of furniture. I got a fantastic steal on a corner unit for my dining room I had always dreamed of having. Usually far too expensive, I knew I’d never actually own one. But, as I was walking along a street I saw a sign “Antique Treasures” – it called my name. I walked in and touched my hand to the blue and white french plates, admired the old, dirty brooches someone’s love had gifted and lifted a few old kitchen items to feel their history. I imagined women with thick, european arms rolling out dough for bread with the pins or grating potatoes on the tattered, rusty grater. I smiled at the stories each of these pieces held. And then, I saw it. Holding antique green dishes was my destined corner hutch. My heart literally jumped. Full of just the right hint of rustic, mixed with modern, clean lines my turn of the century farmhouse corner piece called my name. When I asked the price, I expected to be horrified, but surprisingly it was quite affordable. I had to have it.
I became obsessed with this piece as I thought about it at home. It made no sense. Why was I obsessing over a piece of furniture I didn’t need? I already had a dining room hutch that was perfectly good and fine. But, I had to have it. I convinced my husband, with some obvious “I don’t get women” reaction from him and 3 days later, my beauty arrived.
There is something in the story of furniture that excites me. The time that my daughter threw up on our brown sofa and we had to search for a cleaner willing to deal with bodily fluids. Or, the time we purchased our first piece of furniture for our home, a sturdy coffee table with huge baskets that held toys, then games and now books. The wooden globe I purchased for our 10th anniversary that they called would arrive a day late, so I ran out to get another globe (I wanted to give him ‘the world’, corny, I know!) only to pull up to the package of the first globe on my doorstep. Now we have two worlds. The chip on the table when my littles one bumped her head or the little sticker that lay glued to the bed in my son’s room reminding me he was once a little boy.
So, maybe now, my passion is furniture. Can furniture even be a passion? Who knows? Maybe it’s still stories. Maybe it’s yet to be written. I realize I am having my mid-life crisis, I already had my mid-wife crisis so I guess this is what’s next. Anyone else in my boat?