Catching Money

When someone asks me, “Where do you work?” or “What do you do?” I’m never really sure how to answer. With me, the subject of “work” is actually kind of complicated. It is simple for me to explain what my husband does. “He’s a mechanical engineer at Electrolux. He designs and builds refrigerators.” Bing Bam Boom. Cut and dry. But when someone asks me, I have a bevy of answers to choose from. There is the easy response:

“Oh, I don’t work, I’m a Stay-At-Home-Mom.”

The longer response:

“I’m [fingers gesturing with “air-quotes”] ‘retired’ from being a Licensed Veterinary Technician, which is like a Registered Nurse but for animals, not people. I stopped working when I had kids, but I plan to go back (semi-lie…I really don’t “plan” on going back to work ever again, except for very part time, but you can’t really “plan” for anything in life, so I guess I’ll see what happens in the future…) once my kids get a little older.”

The very long, unnecessary response that the person asking me really didn’t want to know, because they only asked me, “Where do you work,” as part of small talk and politeness:

“I’m [fingers gesturing with “air-quotes”] ‘retired’ from being a Licensed Veterinary Technician, which is like a Registered Nurse but for animals, not people. I stopped working when I had kids, but I plan to go back once my kids get a little older. But I do work one night a week at a Local Grade A Goat Dairy milking goats, making cheese and taking care of the Border Collies and Guardian dogs.”

Our children know that Daddy goes to work. Most Mondays mornings, fresh from a fun weekend with tons of “Daddy and Max” time (thank you Plan City and Legos, for all you have done for my husband and son!), Max will rub his sleepy eyes and ask, “Where’s Daddy?” and I explain that Daddy is at work, “OHHH! But I want him to be HERE!” (You and me, both, kiddo!) And I tell Max that Daddy goes to work, and works very hard so that we have our house, our food, all of our toys (and Mommy’s new Coach purse…OOOPS.) It is important to us, that at an early age, the kids understand the importance of working hard and doing a good job, and that they associate that with the value of a dollar. I’ve gotten some strange looks when my 4 year old son asks me in the Target toy department, “Mom, is this toy expensive?” or when he is able to tell me how much money something costs. When Max wanted a Lego Police Helicopter, we made him “earn” his own money, and once he had $20, Andrew took him to Toys R Us and they bought it together.

The idea of ME working, however, seems to be lost in translation. The kids know that I go to the farm once a week. They mostly remember that I work with goats, but sometimes, when asked what animals are on Mommy’s farm, the occasional cow or buffalo or zebra sneak into their thoughts. Although we read many books about farms and farmers, the idea that I’m shoveling shit, or stripping teats (google it), or driving a Kubota farm vehicle doesn’t cross their minds, or apparently, is even in their reality. And that’s fine. All they need to know is that Mommy’s “real” job, is taking care of them, forever and always.

That being said…when I got home from the farm last night, tired, cold and hungry, but feeling happy and satisfied with an afternoon and evening of hard, outdoor work with animals, the kids were thrilled to see me. A chorus of “MOMMMMY!” erupted and the pitter-patter of pajama-ed feet stampeded towards me.

“Mommy! You’re home from work!” Max exclaimed with love.

“I’m so happy to see you, Mom,” nuzzled Vivi, as she squeezed me tight.

“Did you bring home all the money, so you can buy me Legos?” asked Max.

WHUH? I suppose our plan backfired. Apparently, our children have turned into two slave-driving Scrooge McDucks, who can’t wait to visit the “money room” so that they can swim for hours in the mountains of gold coins we bring home.

Andrew took Max up to bed, and I sat with Vivien for a moment on my lap, just the two of us. I asked her, “What do YOU think Mommy does at work?”

She thought for a second, “Um,” still thinking, “You CATCH allllll the money!”

Two images popped into my head, one after the other. The first was me in one of those plexiglass money booth games, trying to "catch" as much flying money as I could in 60 seconds, and shoving it furiously down my shirt, bra, pockets and pants...





And the next was something I ran across on photobucket. It was as if Vivien drew it herself...

The next time someone asks me, "What do you do?" I will reply, "I catch money." And leave it at that. After all, that about sums it up.