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When I first became a mother, there was absolutely no choice but for me to work. My husband wasn't working consistently, and the money he did bring in was often spent on un-necessary items. My income was the only consistent source of support, as well as the insurance benefits, for the entire family. When my marriage ended, I was as a single parent with no other options besides work.

When I remarried and gave birth to my second child, my new husband asked me if I would like to stay home. We wouldn't be raking in the dough, but his income provided enough to cover expenses. We decided that it was worth a try for a year or two. I loved my job, but it wasn't one I had always dreamed about, so it really wasn't a difficult decision for me. When my third child was born, it became clear that any income I brought into the bank account would barely cover childcare expenses, so it became almost a necessity for me to be home.

I love staying home with my children. I have been able to be the one who teaches them to talk, and to walk, and to run. My memories will include them learning how to draw a circle and ride a bike. I have also been the one who nagged my son about projects and homework, and trekked all over town for various scouts, baseball and dance activities. It hasn't always been easy, or even 100% pleasant, but I would not trade these years for a million dollars.

Yet still, my own personal demons sometimes lurk in the shadows of each day. I miss the part of me that was that independent person with a brain that was useful for more than Old MacDonald Had a Farm. I miss waking up in the morning, putting on makeup and dressing like an adult. I miss the hour commute, each way, with my coffee and singing to the radio station of my choice. I miss me.

How could I even think about such things? The guilt overwhelms me sometimes. I have been given this wonderful opportunity to be a huge part of my children's lives and I am feeling sorry for myself because I miss driving to work? When I was driving that long drive, with traffic, I wasn't thinking it was such a cool thing, but now I miss it. What kind of mother does that make me? How can I think that I am a good mother, when sometimes I am watching the clock for bedtime, just so I can sit and read a book without interruption? How is it, that while I will play Go Fish for the 5th time, I don't feel like my face is showing enjoyment anymore? My mother's always seemed to. I feel like I have failed in my ability to enjoy my children.

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