Sometimes, when I’m away from my children and allow my mind to wander the pastures of what might-have-been, I question the decision I made years ago to leave my career and stay at home to raise them. I miss the intellectual and political stimulation. But most of the work I do - writing, volunteering, caregiving - is work exchanged in the gift economy, which is not to say that it’s unimportant or unfulfilling work, but rather un-accounted, or at least un-celebrated. Sure, I’m a writer now, and sometimes I even earn a little money. You can infer from that how I’ve been feeling about it lately. I remember feeling panicked when I hit the 5-year mark - like I had fallen from the train and would never find my way back in. It’s been over a decade now since I left my career as an environmental scientist. All those working people who make the American engine run.
It’s a nice nod to all the workers out there - the people who stock our grocery shelves, the workers who pave our streets, the teachers who guide our children, the doctors and nurses who tend to our health. In our town, Labor Day is marked by the placement of American flags all around the town, a patriotic gesture provided by the local Rotary Club.
It took me a moment before I realized what she meant. We were all gathered at the picnic tables under the concession tent -all of us sunburned moms and dads, talking and laughing and snapping iPhone photos of the kids - when one of the moms turned to the birthday girl’s mother and said, “Happy Labor Day.” The girls all sang Happy Birthday to her after the last game of the day, before devouring the cupcakes that someone else’s mother had baked for them. A few months ago, my daughter’s friend was celebrating her birthday during a weekend soccer tournament.
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