by JANELL BURLEY HOFMANN
For more than a decade, I have given my whole self to my babies. My body gave birth to five of them in eight years. My spirit rallied in the depths of darkness and the break of dawn to care for them. My heart cracked open to love them like I had never loved before.
I finished my education and made the conscious and proud decision to make a life from the vortex that is home. I am busy by nature, a doer. My energy comes in wild and intense spurts. I have a high tolerance for chaos, a wide capacity to love and be loved. Mothering was a natural fit.
I always kept a hand in the game, contributing to our household’s financial pot by caring for a friend’s children, coaching at a local high school, teaching community classes. I volunteered until there was no more volunteering to be done. But mostly, I made a career out of stay-at-home motherhood.
I knew from memory the library’s puppet show scripts and story time schedule. I knew which playground got the most sunlight on damp spring mornings so the slides would be dry and which ones offered shade from the punishing August sun. I could tell the time of day by which school bus drove past our house, when the mail was delivered, when neighbors came to and from work.
I walked and ran the neighborhood in varying combinations of single, double and triple strollers. I knew shortcuts and mileage by heart and could criss-cross from one side to the other blindfolded.
I spent hours parked on our small corner lot scribbling hopscotch and outlining bodies in sidewalk chalk while one child after the next went from tricycle to training wheels to two wheels. I played soundtracks to treasured movies while we baked banana bread and chocolate chip cookies and play dough from scratch.
Toys took over rooms in our house and children’s artwork lined the walls. I pushed small bodies on the swings, roamed the pumpkin patch at our local farm, ate fistfuls of goldfish at play dates, zipped through the grocery stores one million times over.