The other day my 4 year old asked me when I was going to work. I reminded him that I quit teaching swimming lessons about 6 months ago and I wasn’t going anywhere that day without him and his brother. “Oh right. You don’t work?” he asked.
“I work at home. With you guys,” I replied.
His response to that? “PPhhhhffffttttt!” (That’s a cross between a snort/laugh/scoff)
The raging feminist who lives inside of me doubled over in pain as if she were punched in the kidney (she’s a little dramatic). I laughed along with my son and wondered what was going on inside his brain, and I think I get it.
Daddy leaves to go to work, but looks forward to coming home at the end of the day so that he can play with the boys. Home is where play happens. So of course we don’t work here. We play, we learn, we watch Curious George, we paint, we do puzzles, we create, we eat. But my goodness, we DO NOT work.
So the next time someone asks me what I do I’m going to simply tell them:
I play from home.