Growing up, I had a mother who worked and I loved it. In part this was because her working allowed me a lot of freedom. But more than that, I loved being able to say my mother was a lawyer. It made her sound important and accomplished and like she knew what was up. I was proud of her.

At 18 I went to college and became, among other things,  a raging feminist. I was sure I saw sexist slights everywhere. Women had rights and I was happy to tell you about them if you asked, or even if you didn’t.

In my 20s, still feminist, though less on rampage, I became one career-focused mofo. I was sure I was going to become a United States Senator (D., NY). I had worked on Capitol Hill for Senator Feinstein for a couple of years and I was going back to grad school to study public policy  – to then head back to D.C to begin my political ascent. I was going to Make A Difference. I Was Going Places.

During grad school, I began to question whether I wanted to go back to D.C., but I was still determined to find some kind of profession that would Matter, even if it wasn’t becoming an elected official. One spring morning during my second semester of school, a fellow student asked, “Do you want to work for Clinton’s pollster this summer? I have a friend who works there.” It was 1996. I wasn’t up to much else, so I said okay.

Before being allowed the opportunity to have this unpaid internship, I had one of the more grueling interviews of my life. I remember my interviewer asking me, “What’s the one issue or policy you changed Dianne Feinstein’s opinion on?”  I was a confident and smug kind of fella,  but I was fully aware that I hadn’t changed the Senator’s opinion about anything. Mostly because I was busy answering her telephones and accepting that she was going to call me Allison (and not my actual name or anything approximating it) for the entire two years that I worked for her.

I got the internship which later morphed into a full-time job and then a career.  I felt lucky. I immediately clicked with the work and was good at it. I loved the adrenaline of the place, I loved being busy and I was given a lot of responsibility. While my friends struggled with what they were going to do, I was on A Path and Watch The Fuck Out.

By 30, still career-minded, I had graduated from being the schmuck taking copious notes on midnight phone calls with clients to a Vice President at a small boutique firm where I was expected to drum up business, especially if I wanted to move “up.”  But here’s the thing. Even though I didn’t have kids and wasn’t even married yet, I didn’t really want to go “up.” I was sort of a-ok where I was. I didn’t want to put the effort into “taking it to the next level” because at the end of the day, all I really wanted to do was go home and watch “The Bachelor” whilst conference calling friends to discuss. I was career-minded, it was just…I also wanted a life, even if that life was watching TV alone.

By the time I was pregnant with my first child I had moved to a different firm where I was less stressed but also less happy. No one -including and/or especially me – gave a shit whether I moved up the so-called ladder. While I may have lost my earlier ambition – or let’s be real, any ambition at all — what I did know with absolute clarity was that no way in hell did I want to be home with my kid. No thank you. Not happening.

After 16 weeks with my newborn daughter – with help both from a paid person and my mother – I was ready to not be alone with her every day. I went back to work, ready, if not to take on the world, to at least go to the bathroom without another human being in the room.  But the thing was, that work-life balance people talk about – that I had experienced as a single woman 5 years earlier – that’s some real stuff.  For me, the conflict was not being away from my child, but being away from my child and bored, perhaps to tears. I was still certain I didn’t want to be at home but I was also certain that being in a dead-end, boring job wasn’t the answer either.

Vaguely kicking and screaming (and yet vaguely to aggressively relieved), I quit my job and freelanced. I wasn’t home, mind you (even though I was home), I was a consultant. It worked for a while.  A couple of years and a second child later, the freelancing had dried up, but I still felt I owed my brain something, anything. So, I started to write (and finish) a book.  And it was great and somewhat fulfilling. But I felt lost.  I missed the bustle of rush hour. I missed having deadlines.  Many of my friends’ careers took off as mine….did not. While I missed caring about my professional life….I didn’t actually miss the work itself. This tug-of-war – thinking I should care about work but not actually caring – tormented me. For years.

My spouse kept telling me “work is over-rated” and I kept telling my spouse, “Just  because I’m not working, it doesn’t mean I’m your personal maid service.” (Aside: These were not our best conversations). The thing is, I wasn’t ready to be someone who didn’t work, so even though I wasn’t actually working, I tried to occupy my time with things that were Not My Children. And in order to make my younger, ambitious self feel better, when  people would ask if I worked/what I did and I would say “I’m a writer” or “I freelance.” Even when I had nothing going on. It made me feel less….lame. It made me feel like my younger self would like me better.

Then something happened. Both my kids started school full-time and I started to kind of….enjoy them. And not just because they were in school for a chunk of the day, though I’m not going to lie, that helped.  But it turns out that the babies/toddlers I hid from (and I did that – I hid from them) became actual likable kids who are unique and witty and smart and kind. Also, they fetch things for me and offer to give me massages. It’s not a career. But it’s fulfilling and rewarding in other ways, and I actually I revel in being with them more than I thought possible (unless they’re in a bad mood and then not so much). I still give a shout out to my brain when I can – I’m now working on a second book and I have this blog. But when people ask if I work, I finally say “no.” (Before adding “but I”m writing a book!” because let’s be real, I have a little fight left in me)

All said and done, there are still days when I feel I owe the 18 year-old ambitious, take-no-prisoners me an apology or an explanation of some sort.  But then I think – what the hell did she know? She was just an 18 year-old girl finding her way in the world. So I’ve stopped worrying that she’s judging me because she’s still in there somewhere. She’s grown up a bit and has learned to pick her battles.  Her priorities have shifted. She’s okay with being called a girl (in fact, feel free), but if you call her by her husband’s last name….hear her roar.