Emigration Diary: Mother’s Day
It was Mother’s Day here last Sunday. I saw my children for approximately twenty minutes in the morning, received my cute handmade cards and then I went and worked a double shift in the restaurant on a crazily busy day. Mother’s day is big business here, just like all the other Hallmark Holidays. Everyone in town and their mother seemed to be clamouring for a table in our petite establishment. There are hours of the day that passed in such a whirr of bread baskets, table numbers and skirt steaks that I don’t have any recollection of them at all. And this is my little housewife job, I have a gnawing sense of fear that things are about to get really real.
I have a list an arm long of online coursework to do, assignments to submit and documents I have to gather by June. I am at a disadvantage because I have to sit a multi-subject teaching certification exam that covers such subjects as American history and social studies that I never covered in school not having gone to an American high school or college, so I have to study that too. My children still need to eat nutritious meals and need clean clothes to wear. They need help with their homework and to be brought to the various birthday parties and play dates they are invited to. The training in the summer is six weeks from 9 to 6.30 an hour and a half away from home. I will hardly see them at all in that time. The pool is to be relined and opened this week. Will I ever get to swim in it? George has been constructing a brand new little kitchen, weekend by weekend. At the moment I can’t foresee a time when I will actually get to cook in it. I have no idea what my schedule will look like in September. I just hope I can work out some kind of work/life balance that keeps everyone happy and home life running smoothly.
It seems that if I want the American dream to come true I’m going to have to spread myself very thinly. I am aware that other working mothers juggle this stuff all the time, it is obviously doable if a little overwhelming and I’m confident that I’ll somehow figure it all out but re-entering the rat race to this extent after eight years of being home with the kids is damn scary. This is what I wanted though, isn’t it? This is why I uprooted my family and transplanted them across the Atlantic Ocean. I’m going to do my best to make a go of it with my fingers kept tightly crossed that this is The Right Thing To Do and hey, with a bit of luck and a lot of hard work I may end up with a few more letters after my name and the resources to fund my children to earn a few when their time comes. It gives me confidence that my youngest child draws me cheering under a blue sky. I hope he still sees me like this next year.