I never want to go back. Ever, ever, ever.
When I was a young, naive arrogant little thing, I used to follow this up with, “…Why would I have kids if I’m just going to hand them off to someone else to raise them?”
Oh, oh teenaged-Madeleine. You were so blind to the ways of the world. Such a know-it-all with so little knowledge.
It literally never occurred to me that staying at home to raise my children might not be an option. It never occurred to me that we would not be able to swing it financially, I never realized that this choice might not be so easy to make.
I am still hopeful that life will intervene somehow. I am hopeful that maybe Adam’s job will pay well enough that we can get by on one income (I am happy to sacrifice to make this happen). I am hopeful that maybe I will somehow, inexplicably become an international best seller and can live off of residuals for life. I am hopeful that maybe a part-time job would do it, cover the gap between expenses and income.
So to conclude, no I don’t want to go back to work. It is my fondest wish to spend my days with Olive, teaching her and playing with her and being there for her when she needs me. But I will go back, if I have to.