Being Home (or, Not Working)

I started work as a psychology professor in August 1997.  No, wait, that sounds far too bold. Actually, in 1997 I was a shy doctoral student who was shocked (shocked!) that a room of compliant, (mostly) Dutch-heritage, Christian students just a few years younger than me would write down whatever I said.  (Except Tim, of course, who preferred to pass around his just-received vacation photos--boy, does THAT sound old--while his girlfriend took notes for him.)

And I worked hard to prepare each class.  On my very worst day that first year, I had students discuss the first part of the chapter so I could quickly read the 2nd half of the chapter and prep a lecture outline.  I loved researching the day's scheduled topics (thanks to my exhaustive and all-to-rigid syllabus at the time) and coming up with creative ways to teach the material. I absolutely loved that part of the job: being with my own brain in my quiet office.

As I matured as a professor (and as a human being), I came to enjoy getting to know my students as more than, well, mostly-Dutch-Christians.  Some were hard-working but not particularly gifted; some were smart but lazy; some were bright, hard-working and competitively arrogant.  Some were shy; some were distractingly friendly.  I no longer saw students as people trying to take advantage of me, or quickly judged them as easily distracted by unimportant (non-academic) pursuits.

At some point, I started taking my introductory students to coffee, one at a time, to learn about each of their families, interests, and goals. I later recruited teaching assistants based partly on these conversations: who was easy to talk to, used self-deprecating humor, and was a little bit sassy.  I like spirit.  Gradually, I grew to love my students, seeing them as broken people to be sympathized with; they were trying to find their way as new adults amid the complexities of managing laundry, friends' engagements, facebook, powerpoints, parties, and identity crises.  I no longer saw students in black-and-white terms or as "types."   As I got older, I began to see myself as an aunt--perhaps an eccentric one with a too-bawdy sense of humor--who dearly loved these young people and finally had the self-confidence to show them love (sending flowers for a recital; taking a stubborn but sick student to the hospital) and to kick them in the pants (why weren't you in class last week? why are your grades so bad?).  I transformed from insecurely judgmental to confidently condescending to vulnerably supportive.

Which is all very well and wonderful.  Now, however, after years of searching, my husband landed his dream job: a professor at an overseas university.  He would be the full-time professor now, and I would take my turn being at home, perhaps doing part-time work but mostly managing the house and kids.  He would be in the lime-light now, sharing his notes and gifts from adoring students and appreciative colleagues.  I would be...nobody.  No more gentle scolding of wayward students; no more daily praise (implicit or otherwise) for investing in the growing minds of young adults; no more notes of thanks for helping a student land a scholarship, apply to graduate school, or just learn to enjoy learning.

Now... home with kids.  Who didn't want to live overseas any more than I did.  I had chosen to teach college-age students because I can't really tolerate the noise and mess and check-list-resistant nature of people under 18. I like lots of time alone. I like tidy.  I like control, lists, silence.  Kids offer none of that.  I was not happy.

People who learn that I was a professor for 16 years (and an academic dean for 7 of those) can't help but ask why I'm not teaching here in Korea.  Initially I blamed my husband's university: they hadn't asked me. Then I reasoned I was still settling in and catching up with crafty projects, taking a long-deserved break.  But now?  Now...my answer is changing.  My kids (ages 11, 14, and 18) have a 9-week winter break that I was frankly dreading - so many crumbs and fights over screen time and squabble drama.  But now... I know a lot about my kids.  Which one loves to help around the house; who uses hugs to say he's sorry; who hates being in debt; who is naturally nurturing; who is upset by cursing; who loves sports statistics and using humor to relieve tension. Now I know why one son struggles with math; I see how another's musical gifts transfer to language learning; I know how one uses humor and isolation to deal with stress. I have a sense now of how to motivate each one; I am learning how to follow up on chores; I am figuring out when to push and when to be quiet.

So, why am I not teaching?  Here is today's answer.  Because, for the first time in my kids' lives, I am learning how to enjoy being a mom.  Not a teacher or mentor or eccentric auntie to other people's kids, but a mother.  Mentoring my own kids as quirky, willful beings who are making their way toward adulthood.

And I'm not sure that I've ever been happier.