Your Turn By NICKI PEASLEY

What Do You Do?

“So, what do you do?” she asks. And thus an essay is born.

I’m at this wedding reception making painfully small small-talk with this woman obviously fresh off the Botox bandwagon. (Her lips are the only things moving on her face.)

My consolation prize for playing the wedding reception mingling game is the heaping platter of hors d’oeuvres I hold in front of me like a shield. Those meatballs and baby quiches and oh, those scallops wrapped in bacon… My finger food friends demote the woman’s incessant babbling to my secondary focus, so I am caught off guard, meatballs stuffed in both cheeks, when that question slaps me in the face: “So, what do you do?”

Ten years ago, before kids, I actually liked that question. I had just started my teaching career at one of the city’s best elementary schools and I was beyond eager to share my fresh, idealistic philosophies on public education. I couldn’t wait to tell you “what I did.”  And I considered wedding receptions and cocktail parties my personal venue, my soapbox for such discussion, whether you wanted to hear it or not. 

Since I temporarily retired from full-time teaching to nurture my own family, my perspective on that question has changed. I remember being at a party shortly after the birth of my third child when a well-meaning old friend asked me if I was still working. 

Poor thing didn’t know what hit him when my post traumatic birth syndrome reared its ugly head, spewing venomous verbal attacks on the likes of anyone without sleep deprivation and engorged breast issues. Hmm… haven’t heard from that old friend in a while.

Unable to blame postpartum hormones for such outbursts anymore (my youngest is three years old), I’ve learned to get a grip on that question.

Sometimes I respond with the litany of responsibilities and mundane chores that come with being a stay-at-home mom, but I notice your eyes glaze over somewhere between the fourth game of Candy Land and the third load of laundry.  

Other times, I nauseate you with all of my volunteer endeavors and my commitment to improving our community for the sake of all of our children. More often than not, I’m compelled to tag my stay-at-home mom status with more résumé-worthy efforts such as my part-time tutoring gig, my storytelling appearances, and oh, have you seen my latest article in Richmond Parents Monthly?

But why, I ask you, do I feel this overwhelming need to embellish my core reason for existence?

With every thread of my being, I know that I was put on this earth to be a mother. And I am blessed beyond words to have the privilege of “staying home” with these three little human beings who idolize me (most of the time).

“I’m a mom,” I want to answer simply and with pride and contentment, but there’s a little thing called MY EGO in the way.

I’ve been on a spiritual quest lately, a journey to find my Higher Self. My husband likes to poke fun at the stacks of metaphysical, philosophical books cluttering my bedside table. I’ve gotten in touch with my energy centers; I’ve discovered the meditation mantra that works for me; and my sun salutation is looking really good.

I’m on my way to a pure and authentic existence in which MY EGO can take a hike.

Oriah Mountain Dreamer (yes, that’s her name) wrote in “The Invitation,” “It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.” 

Yeah, but when she gets asked that question at the wedding reception, she can say, without hesitation, “I’m a famous author.” She wouldn’t say that though. She would say something really cool and “new-agey” like, “I just am.” 

Well, I just am not there yet.

Recently, I got a little self-esteem boost when my neighbor, an artist who designs a really hip line of t-shirts, asked me if I would consider modeling his new underwear line for his website. (Pause to strut my stuff a bit).

Of course, the artist tells me that it wouldn’t be appropriate to exploit the neighborhood teenage girls who would be PERFECT for this gig and that Photoshop might be employed to smooth out the wrinkles in my non-teenage bottom, but hey! I’m a 35-year-old mother of three and I just got asked to model underwear. I ROCK!

Back at the wedding reception, I’m chewing my meatballs and Ms. Botox is anxiously awaiting my answer to that question. (Really, she’s not anxious—she’s had that same involuntary, surprised, stuck look on her face since we began our conversation.)

I take a deep cleansing, centering breath; I envelop myself in nurturing golden-pink light; I excuse MY EGO; and I call on my heart to speak with overwhelming pride and inner peace, “I’m a mom…”

“…and I do some underwear modeling on the side.”

I’ve still got a lot of work to do, Ms. Mountain Dreamer.

 Nicki Peasley is…. a mom. She lives happily in the Northside with her husband, her three children and her dog Sadie.

Your Turn Archives: