Parenthood is the Anti-Pride

I never realized how fast pride goes out the window when you have kids.

It's been a tough year in our household.  Last year I miscarried twins, and it didn't hit me hard until this year.  When it happened last year, I never even missed a day of work.  I pushed through and was honestly kind of concerned that I might be a sociopath.

This year, it crept up on me.  Panic attacks, random crying episodes, and when I realized the date, I knew why my heart hurt so much.

I lost my part of my heart, but employers don't give a shit about that kind of thing, so I lost my job as well.

I found a low-level cashier job.  Like I mentioned previously, I'm not too proud to work for a single digit amount of dollars per hour.  It's a job.

This particular job is pretty rough on an old-ish gal like me.  Eight hours of work, no breaks (yeah, I know the labor board frowns on that kind of thing, but I need the job too bad to complain.)
The thing that gets me through every hour when my feet are screaming at me, and my back feels like it has a hot coal in it is one thing.  My kids.

My twins start school this week.  Thankfully, I have enough money for school shoes, and clothes.  I already bought their supplies.  It took a lot, I had to sell a lot of my own personal shit, but fuck; I was glad to sell it.

Some people ask me about that other job and think I'm crazy to be working at a job they consider to be 'beneath' me.  I don't give a tin shit what they think.

Parenthood isn't about pride.  It's about swallowing it.  For me, it's doing whatever is in my power to make sure those beautiful kids go to school that first day in brand new converse, their clothes purchased through hours of mom's hurting feet.  And I hope they never know what it's like to stand until your knees are crying and begging to get your fat ass off them.

I want their school experience to be unclouded with worry.  I want them to enjoy going everyday.  I want their biggest worry to be what they're going to wear and did mom sign their folder.  I want them to enjoy their life.  So, I clock in.  When it gets to be too much, I think of two beautiful kids, wearing their brand new converse.  And I force this fat ass to go a few more steps.