A Room With A View

I'm writing this morning from a desk on the ninth floor at Ptarmigan at Cherry Creek, overlooking the south and central sections of Denver. The mountains show freshly-washed faces to the left  and only a few harmless white clouds hover around their peaks. I felt a thrill when I went down the elevator to the coffee shop in the lobby, and a jolt when my body remembered the familiar rhythms of life in an office; bathroom in the hallway - elevator - coffee - elevator - computer at the desk (repeat). Some part of me longs to return to this ordered, legitimized lifestyle where all is quiet except for squeaky air vents, toys are nonexistent and the adults smile cheerfully  and walk briskly without little people darting about between their legs.

I am only here because of my child, however, and I'm dressed in wrinkled khaki shorts and a white t-shirt instead of pressed khaki pants and a button-down blouse. Daniel sits a few rooms down undergoing tests for IQ and aptitude, and there are actually toys in this office. Aside from myself and Daniel and Dr. Riddle the offices are empty, because the tutors who normally work here do so after the tutees finish with their school day. The quiet, the desk with a view, and the free wi-fi give me a proprietary, satisfied feeling and I recognize it as one that comes infrequently.

I sat on the spinning bikes two days ago next to a good friend, who shared her feelings about being lost in a society which seems blind to mothers' work in the home and only credits skills with titles, incomes, and easily observed outcomes. She confessed to feeling a bit lost in life, and this word resonated with me. I know that I am blessed and lucky to be home with my children, especially in this year of healing, but I feel lost, on a hike without a compass. What do I put as my title on Linked In now that I have finished at the Museum? How do I add value to society? and how can I add monetary value to my family? I don't know the answers to any of these questions, but it sure is more fun to ask them on the ninth floor.