“My husband and I had a day date.
Not the sexy kind of afternoon rendezvous where you order a glass of chardonnay and feel swanky and cool. This was the grown-up kind of date—involving words like capital gains and deductions.
We walked into the office and took our spots on the vinyl chairs. The accountant pulled up our info on the screen and swiveled it towards us.
And there it was. In bold print. Just nestled under my husband’s name and title. Next to mine read:
HOMEMAKER.
My first reaction was to gag. Next, I wanted to stand up and protest.
Hello!
I swallowed my instinct to get-on-my-soap-box to teach this guy some things about the modern-day woman. Instead, I figured it was best to just proceed with plugging in the numbers and get the heck out of this Neanderthal’s office.
But, it kept popping up on the screen. Every time the numbers Dude scrolled back to the home page.
HOMEMAKER.
My blood boiled. I mean, I have never once referred to myself with that term: ‘WHO the heck was this person to slap that label on me?’
But, as I looked at those 9 letters… I began to wonder.
HOMEMAKER
What did that job title actually mean?
Is it my job?
I mean, it’s on a tax form and everything.
I do make the HOME.
I make the food: the lunches, potluck dishes, the cupcakes to share with the class. The birthday cakes, the family meals. Snacks. All the snacks.
I make the schedules: sports practices, playdates, football games, track meets, music lessons, clubs, summer camps, birthday parties, carpools…more birthday parties. More carpools.
I make the appointments: audiology, physicals, well-checks, sick-visits, orthodontist, ophthalmology, haircuts, IEP’s, dentist…
I make the relationships: with other parents from school, the neighborhood, sports teams…mom friends at the park, the pool, the grocery store, the gym.
I make the space we inhabit welcoming, warm, organized. I provide the towels to dry their bodies, the blankets to cover them when it’s cold, the art on the walls to inspire.
I make the humble pie. I own my mistakes, and I teach them to take responsibility for theirs.
I make the act of kindness a verb. I show them how to hold a door for a stranger, look someone in the eyes and smile, pick up trash even when, and include the person who is feeling left out.
I make the glue to put them back together after defeats, disappointments, heartbreaks.
I make the homework seem possible. The seemingly unsolvable equation doable and help make sense of the comma, semi-colon, and theme.
I make the opinions they have seem valuable. And teach them when to be honest and when to bite their tongues.
I make the artwork they create feel essential. And encourage their creativity and out-of-the-box thinking.
I make the difference between being cocky and being confident clear. And make humility a goal and make arrogance unattractive.
I make their differences feel special and their commonalities unique.
I make the sky the limit and help the stars to appear within reach.
I make the ordinary feel extraordinary and turn the mundane into magic.
I make the process weigh more substantial than the outcome.
I make the experiences hold a higher value than the things.
I make the decision to work from home a blessing. A gift rather than a sacrifice.
I make the house a home by ensuring the people who live here feel safe. Loved.
I am the maker.
The maker of the HOME.
It’s a pretty important position to fill.
Whether you work inside the home, outside the house, or if the form has a different title next to your name…
As a mom, you still do all the things to make your house a home. It may look different than the house next door, but in the end, most of us are striving for similar things. Joy. Love. Home sweet home.
And although my lines on the tax form have fewer zeros next to them than my husband’s, without the maker of the home, all you’ve got is four blank walls.”
This story was submitted to Love What Matters by Valli Vida Gideons, founder of the blog, My Battle Call, where it originally appeared. You can follow her on Facebook and Instagram.
Read more from Valli:
‘What grade is your son in?,’ a mom at the gym asked. ‘My daughter is in 4th,’ I replied.
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