I’ve been paid to be a lot of things: server, cook, barmaid, receptionist, gallery girl, accountant, data entry automaton, catering drudge, writer, editor, and curatorial assistant. The pay has never been great — or even particularly good — but it has helped, as every dollar does. Some of it was hard, some boring, and some fun, but all of it was paid.
Then I had kids. I worked some, in the beginning, but finally crashed into the modern mothers’ quandary — money. Thirty years ago, the best job I could find with an Art History degree offered a salary of $19k, while childcare would cost me $17k. The choice: Never see my kids for $2k/year, or never leave my kids and get nothing. I chose the latter, worked harder than ever, lost a bit of my mind, and pinched every penny that my breadwinning husband earned. I picked up paying jobs over the years that didn’t require childcare — catering gigs at night when my husband wasn’t working, freelance gigs at home with small, demanding maniacs all over me — but my job was basically kids. I have four of them. It’s a lot.
In 2011, Forbes published a piece, “Why Stay-At-Home Moms Should Earn A $115,000 Salary,” that has lived rent-free in my head. It’s a hypothetical extrapolation in which stay-at-home moms are compensated, with actual money, for their efforts. The tasks of the SAHM are broken down and real market value is calculated for each job description: Janitor, Cook, Psychologist, Facilities Manager, etc. This resonated, to understate. As a mother (and a pretty good Facilities Manager), I have done all of those jobs for many years and no pay.
I would add the following:
Conflict Resolution Specialist, Nurse, Interpreter, Chauffeur, Parisitologist, Librarian, Fashion Consultant, Pharmacist, Legal Aide, Life Coach, Referee, Censor, Nutritionist, Education Consultant, Resumé Builder, Event Planner … shall I continue?
I heard a story about a woman, the wife of a professor, who gave up her own academic career to stay home with her kids. At university events, she was often asked: “What do you do?”
Her honest response — “I stay home with my kids” — was met with disinterest and dismissal often enough that she changed the answer, mostly to entertain herself and manage her indignation.
“My brother and his wife were killed in a horrible accident and I’m raising their children.”
She was suddenly the center of attention, a noble and generous heroine. It’s interesting commentary about the value placed on our work. Raising our own kids, we are unpaid and underappreciated. Raising someone else’s, we are exalted (though still generally unpaid). Our currency is tied either to paychecks or saintliness. I had neither.
I’ve spoken to enough women to know that the frustration is real. We all need to have our work valued, whether with dollars or respect (dollars being the more respectful choice). We’re all working, all the time, to keep our little storm-tossed boats afloat in an economy that cares nothing for skilled, unpaid labor. Cleaning the house is work. Dinner for six is work. Researching the tiny, undescended testicle is work, and teaching future adults the difference between right and wrong is critical work. Work that is unpaid and generally unacknowledged, unless it goes horribly wrong.
When I worked for the curator, a world-renowned expert in his field, I was paid a stipend, which is like gas money and a slap in the face. As a bartender, I endured leering, grab-ass drunks for tips. Waitressing saw one of Hollywood’s highest paid actors decide that my work was worth 10% of his bill. As a caterer, I made ten dollars an hour to serve canapés to entitled frat boys and tipsy sorority girls, while they humped their way through “Gold Digger.” But the paid work, however minimal or demeaning, bought me an answer when someone asked, “What do you do?” The world demands an answer.
Somehow, even volunteer work got more respect than parenting. The answer became, “I’m working at the library/soup kitchen/festival.” All arguably easier than keeping four tiny, explosive humans alive in a forward-thinking, world-building way, but still marginally more interesting to the tweedy guy at the cocktail party. Raising kids, to the questioner, is unglamorous.
Realist that I am, I didn’t expect compensation for my labor when I was working on my family. This culture doesn’t reward us for tending what is ours. Years past that labor, I see that it was my life’s hardest work. Money would be great, but it would also be nice to know that my answer to that infernal, eternal question is worthy enough for those who judge a person’s value based on what one “does.”
I’ve been very busy. What do you do?
Things to share:
Tomorrow, March 11, is the three year anniversary of the day everything changed. I wrote, back then, about my accidental quarantine at the beach. Can’t believe it’s been three years.
I’m nearly finished reading Ladyparts, the fascinating and enraging memoir by
. Everyone should read this book. She addresses a raft of systemic problems through her own experience, and is a fabulously engaging writer.The Oscars are this weekend and I don’t care nearly as much as they’d like me to. The only nominated movie I’ve seen is The Banshees of Inisherin and oh my Barry Keoghan will break your heart. I’d still like to see Everything Everywhere All At Once and Tár. I do enjoy the dresses.
Take care this weekend, they’re fucking with the clocks again.
Poignant. I like "I've been very busy, what do you do?"
Thank you so much for the shout out for my book! So kind of you. I really appreciate it. xx, D