The women with the strollers

Earlier this week as I drove to work I marveled at the number of strollers on the roads And, of course, the mothers who pushed them. It was a particularly stressful morning, and I knew I had several things to do as soon as I walked into the newsroom. I'd woken up late, because I'd been up too late, and so I was smearing make up on my face as I drove. I'm so good at this I even know which stop lights along U.S. 91 stay red long enough for me to drag the eyeliner across my eyelid in away that makes it look like I did it at home, relaxed, in the mirror. I've learned to do just about everything else while in motion. But eyeliner requires a light. But that's besides the point.

I was stressed out. I am stressed out. I have been for awhile. And as I stared at those women pushing strollers while they chatted amongst themselves or talked on their phones, I had a pang of utter confusion. I have no idea what it's like to be them. They are nearly as foreign to me as strangers in another country who lead very different lives. I watch them as if I'm on safari and they are animals in their natural habitat. It's fascinating to see such a different life.

Here comes a confession. In high school and college, I figured I wouldn't work. I'd get a degree, of course, and maybe work for a couple of years. But then marriage would come, and babies, and life would move along without any bumps. The end.

Then came journalism. And the student paper. I started to spend more time in those classes and at that paper than I did at home. Because I loved it. I was offered a full-time job in my field before I even graduated. Actually, I was offered two. (Remember when the economy was good? Miss those times.)

And I worked. Hard. It's been nearly 6.5 years since graduation, and I love what I do. It's incredibly stressful, it pays like crap and sometimes there are really bad and really long days. But there are reasons to go back each day. What I do is becoming more a part of me than I'd ever imagined it would.

So I see these women and, while I tell myself — truthfully — that I'm going to do something I love, the insides of me feel like they're ripping in half. I think: I am so exhausted. What would it be like to not spend so little time in your own house? To see your yard in the daylight? To be able to talk to others in your neighborhood when you're out with kids during the day? To walk around the block with a baby and be able to look at the mountains and trees and sky without panicking that you're missing a call or that your boss is wondering why you're taking longer than 30 minutes to get lunch? To go to the grocery store during the day? To feel like you belong during neighborhood activities?

I don't know. What I do know is that these women, they have their own struggles. Their own stresses. They may be exhausted, too. But, there are so many things about their lives I crave. Or are there? Could it just be a greener-grass situation?

When, God willing, the time comes that I'm actually able to make a decision about whether I want that life or the one I'm leading now, I don't know what I'll choose. I'd choose the babies, for sure, but I don't know if that plan I had in what's seeming like so many years ago is really so good.