The Greatest Adventure--Staying Home
By Steve Gardiner
Copyright 2005
Steve Gardiner and his daughter, Greta, pause at Crypt Lake in Waterton National Park in Alberta, Canada.
“Are you sure you know what you're getting yourself into?” A school board member at the meeting to approve Steve's parental leave
Running triathlons, mountain climbing on the Alps, Andes and Mt. Everest, canoeing a tributary of the Amazon River, telemark skiing in the Rocky Mountains, trekking across sea ice in the Arctic Ocean--adventure has been a part of my life. Then there was the year I took a leave of absence from teaching and stayed home with my newborn daughter.
Peggy and I were expecting our third child in early June. As teachers, we had the summer to care for the baby and our two other daughters (ages 6 and 4), but would have a problem when school resumed in the fall. Peggy had stayed home for three years when Greta and Romney were young and had just begun her second year since returning to teaching. It would be awkward for her to request another leave so soon.
During a conversation in March, Peggy asked, "Why don't you stay home with them?" I was embarrassed that I hadn't suggested it. Like many of us, I could voice the beliefs of an enlightened generation, but failed when the opportunity to "walk the talk" presented itself. Unconsciously, I still held the June and Ward Cleaver view that the mother stayed home to care for the kids and the father went to work.
While Peggy had stayed home with the two older girls, I left them in the morning snuggled together on the couch reading books and laughing. I came home in the evening to stories of neighborhood walks and trips to the park. I had been jealous.
Also, I remembered my Mt. Everest expedition. In spite of the beauty of the Himalayan mountains and the wonder of the Tibetan culture, I had missed my family intensely. Everest had forced me to look inside myself, examine my values. Family had come out on the top of the list.
In the years after, I had been careful to spend evenings and weekends doing things with the girls to replace the time I was at work. It wasn't the same. This was never clearer than when one of the girls would run into the house with a skinned knee or hurt feelings yelling, "Mama, Mama!" and run to her, even if I were closer.
Why shouldn’t I stay home? The day care costs for a baby and a four-year-old would take a good portion of my paycheck. Why should I work for what was left when I could sacrifice that and take care of the girls myself?
Even though the school district's policy manual called it "maternity leave," the superintendent used the more appropriate term "parental leave" when he presented my letter. As the school board accepted my request, one member turned to me and asked, "Are you sure you know what you're getting yourself into?"
Of course I didn't. But do we ever?
There were moments of doubt. On the first day of school, Peggy loaded her book bag and headed for class. After dropping Greta off for her first grade debut, Romney, Denby and I played on swings and slides on the playground before going home to do laundry and vacuum. I felt guilty for not being in my classroom and struggled with breaking my Pavlovian response to hourly school bells ingrained from 13 years behind the teacher's desk. And I wondered if I would still be enthusiastic about this parenting immersion after three months, six months.
Though I was not in the classroom, I was getting an education. I learned to cook, to create meals with variety and balance. I memorized the grocery store and marveled at how many times the house could need cleaning in one day. It was entropy in action. More significantly, however, I learned how important each day is in a child's life, how Mondays and Fridays aren't synonymous with dread and anticipation respectively, but are days to be lived and enjoyed.
I decided each day would be a mini-adventure. We would do at least one thing we couldn't if I were at work. We walked in the forest collecting sticks and rocks. We skated on the ice rink with Denby gliding in circles in her stroller, buried beneath layers of blankets. Promising each other it would be our secret, we ate lunch at Romney's favorite restaurant, then told Mom and Greta exactly what we ate as soon as we saw them again. We built picture puzzles on the dining room floor, stomped through piles of autumn leaves and floated sticks in the neighbor's creek. I shared each day with my best friends.
I heard a lot of "Mr. Mom" jokes and knew I'd made it when Peggy came home from the grocery store with a sheet of coupons the clerk had given her saying, "These are for your husband." I sat with the moms during story hour at the library and I perched next to them on tiny chairs to watch the first grade class play.
My lungs have burned in races, my legs have ached beneath a heavy pack in the Himalayas and my feet have frozen trekking in the high Arctic. Like those adventures, spending a year at home had its price. There were days when the baby cried too often, when I didn't feel like cleaning toilets or when the pile of bills screamed for my missing paycheck.
However, every adventure also provides memories of an icy mountain shining in the sun, a river twisting through a green meadow, or a smiling face in a strange land. As a stay-at-home dad, I cuddled with Denby during midnight feedings, waited outside Greta's first grade door to share her enthusiastic stories, and held Romney's hand on mid-morning walks on snowy sidestreets. Those, and other memories, are the rewards from the most important thing I've done, the happiest time I've lived and the greatest adventure I've ever had.