Raising a Son Who Watches Me Work

My son doesn’t ask about my work very often.

He doesn’t sit across from me at dinner and demand explanations. He doesn’t ask why I’m on my laptop early mornings or late nights, why we only see each other on weekends. He just watches. Quietly. The way kids do when they’re taking notes they don’t know they’re taking.

That’s what I think about.

I think about what he is learning, through proximity, about what work is. What ambition looks like. What a woman does when the world demands more than is fair. Whether you can build something of your own and still be present. Whether strength and softness can live in the same person.

I don’t have a clean answer for any of it. I’m making this up as I go, like most parents are.

But I’ve made some intentional choices along the way.

I let him see me work hard — and I let him see me stop. I talk about what I do in terms he can understand: I help people figure out what they want to do with their lives. Sometimes I tell him when I had a great call, when someone had a breakthrough. I want him to know that work can mean something beyond just paying bills.

I also let him see me rest. Laugh. Be a person outside of the role. Order takeout without guilt on a Thursday night because no one wants to cook.

I don’t know what he’ll remember. I hope it’s not the missed school events. I hope it’s the conversations, the slow weekend mornings, the moments when I put the phone down and was just his mom.

But if he does remember the work — I hope what he takes from it is this: she did something that mattered to her, and she did it on her own terms.

That would be enough.