Ah .. November, month of Remembrance and growing darkness, an end to Daylight Savings and the final march to the shortest day of winter solstice. It invites hibernation in fuzzy sweaters under cozy quilts with steaming mugs of spiced whatevers. It’s also the perfect month to play.

November in the writing world is National Novel Writing Month, affectionately known as NaNoWriMo, the annual invitation to write a minimum of 50,000 words (about 1,700 words a day): rough draft, selected scenes, whatever, as long as it’s your original writing, written during the month. It’s self-directed and self-monitored, so the only one hurt by your cheating is you. The idea is to get you writing, butt in the seat, words on the page, through incentives like virtual badges, online forums, opportunities for in-person write-ins in your community and, of course, bragging rights if you hit the target. It’s a virtual community shouting Woo Hoo, You Got This! As the year grinds to an end and darkness descends, working alone and facing another year without that book started can be more depressing than usual. NaNoWriMo is that virtual community shouting Woo Hoo! You Got This!  

The power of community is infinite, just as each of us stepping into it is infinite. Writing can help us rediscover that, especially in the darkness.

Speaking of community, a writing retreat I was privileged to be part of this past summer has evolved into a monthly online gathering where with a monthly prompt we each craft a piece of our choice to share and discuss with the group.  October’s prompt was working moms. Wow, the scenario that unleashed for me! I dove in with the enthusiasm of a cooped-up grade schooler released into the fresh air of a new playground. Here is the result: part fiction, part memoir, all me. Enjoy!

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I remember the first time I was asked: ‘Are you a working mom?’

It was a school committee meeting. Annual fundraiser, the first meeting of the year, my first with a school-aged child. Assignment sheets are circulating, ground rules are being laid down by those more experienced members of the group, moms of fourth and fifth graders. As the sheet rounded the turn toward me, the question.

‘Are you a working mom?’

Then the silence, waiting my response.

“Is there any other kind? I replied, genuinely puzzled.

Polite laughter, strained over the growing seeds of impatience. The question is reworded.

“I mean, do you work outside the home?”

And there is was. The battle line. Was I a mother who held a career, earned a paycheque, and otherwise fulfilled herself by having others raise her children during office hours?

Or, was I a mother engaged in daily routines of carpools, domestic duties, crafts after school, homemade dessert every night and volunteering as her ultimate lot in life, grasped as fiercely as the schedule for hall monitor and key to the costume closet for the annual school play?

Today’s me would have sighed, set down my pen, cleared my throat, and replied evenly …

For the love of God, can we as women STOP it already? I mean seriously, can we press pause on the consistent teardown of each other and just work together respecting each of us for the awesome beings we are? Why does it matter where I work, if I get paid, and what I do with my day? I chose to be here …  and granted, in this moment, not one of my best choices but hey, we’re all human, right? Now what is it I can help with? Or can I best help by getting the hell out of your way and letting your little hate fest continue unabated?-

However, today’s me at this juncture of my life was more deeply buried than the Oak Island treasure. In fact, in the moment I was asked, I didn’t know what to say. I did both. I was a full-time freelance writer, at times earning as much take-home pay as my government-employed husband,  working with clients from coast to coast. At the same time, I never left the house, phone cradled to my ear with one or more younglings clustered about awaiting snacks or facewashing or buttons done up.  I fit the world’s definition of a working mom. I was also an at-home mom. Straddlng the line. A stupid line at that.

But the then me also straddled the line of independence and fitting in. Knowing who I was and what I wanted, but not wanting to stand out. You know what happens to the tall poppy, some well-meaning person whispered to me once. It gets picked first.

So I shrugged and said, I work from home … letting my voice trail off hoping this was enough to satisfy the waiting panel.

“What we mean is, do you bake? Or do you get storebought? We understand some people just do not have the time or talent to bake, and we try to balance out the bake sale table with both.”

Of course. I should have known. “I do bake,’ I offered, hesitant on the brink of a realm unknown. Could I measure up to what was clearly impeccable standards?”

‘Wonderful! Came the reply. Smarties or sprinkles?’

Pardon me?

“Smarties or sprinkles? It’s nice to have a variety. What do you use to decorate your cupcakes?”

The world went black.

From the moment the line on my pee stick turned blue, I embraced the realm of motherhood and the choices that came with it. Breast or bottle, cloth or disposable, TV or no, solids sooner or later … I bobbed and weaved between what the experts claimed, what my baby demanded, and what I felt was right. I soon learned there was a fourth expectation to meet: that of the women collective who built their kingdoms upon the judgement of others, creating intricate mazes of decisions and options that left most in pits of condemnation while they ruled, smiling, from on high.

You bottle fed? So sad. Work outside the home? Must be so stressful for you and for your child.

Meanwhile, in another castle, being at home with your child is sniffed at as letting go, giving in, giving up … and what DO you do all day? Straddling the line, I absorbed all the criticism while consciously pursuing the ideal that we can do it all. Homemade treats for the bake sale! You got it. Client meeting at noon and deadline by the end of the day? Sure. Do handcrafted Valentine cards after school with eldest child while baby and toddler nap? Was going to scrub the bathroom then but no worries, will do that after they all go to bed.

Smarties or sprinkles, though, were the proverbial straw. The condemnation, the demands, the nitpicking were infinite, would never stop, unless I claimed the infinity that was me and allowed my inner truth to surface, unapologetically, and unfuckwithable.

When the blackness lifted and my vision cleared, the conversation had resumed without me. Maybe a second or two had gone by. The assignment sheet was still in front of me. I looked at the pen, then reached for my phone. “So sorry,” I murmured, fake texting my dead aunt’s number, “I have a work emergency.” Half the table nodded. “And my kombucha needs bottling … you know what happens when you miss the window …” The other half of the table murmured assent.

I drove first to the liquor store, then home, where in the silence of a house with a child in school, two in daycare and a ‘vacation day’ notice on my email I popped the cork on a glorious red. Raising my glass as a middle finger to every judgement on the planet, I owned my place … belonging nowhere in a battlefield full of lines … completely at home in a world of my creation, where my children were thriving … whether because of my choices or despite them, well, that they can explore with Oprah when they’re older and I’m dead. For now, I choose life and a good Chianti and savour every second.

That night, I dreamed I was back in the school library, huddled around the committee table, eyes on me as I contemplated … Smarties or sprinkles? In my dream I rise slowly, survey my inquisitors demurely, reply calmly…

Who gives a fuck?

Then I wrap myself in my cape and glide to the door, off to meet my fellow witchy bitchy moms for caffeine and sugar and a good laugh under the light of our awareness and a rare full moon.

I mean, really, Smarties or sprinkles? It would be gummy worms, all the way.

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May this November invite you to a rediscovery of play, in words or whatever play feels like to you in the moment. Who knows what awaits?

Thanks for reading,

• Jennifer

Jennifer Hatt is an author, communications consultant, publishing doula and CODE Model Coach™ .
ownyourstorynow.com

To learn more about Decloaking and Living Authentically and other offerings in the WEL-Systems® body of knowledge,
visit https://wel-systems.com/
the brilliant website of its founder, Louise LeBrun, https://louiselebrun.ca/)
and the powerful offerings of CODE Model Coaches™ Stela Murrizi, https://sparkingthesacred.com/
and Sheila Winter Wallace, http://bodygateways.com/