Success or the lack thereof

During a recent dinner, the Diva was prattling on about how her teacher has been asking for parents to volunteer in the classroom.
“So I told her you guys could do it,” she said, “since neither of you have jobs.”
Husband and I looked at each other.
“Honey,” I said. “Your dad is a firefighter.”
“Yeah. But that’s all he does, put out fires.”
We’ve never bragged much about ourselves, but maybe we should start, since our daughter apparently thinks our major life accomplishments involve knowing the words to “Rock Lobster” and being an excellent finder of post-storm worms.
Then last week, I received a notice from the Social Security Administration helpfully advising me of the benefits I’ve earned in my lifetime. It listed my annual income for the past quarter decade.
I was appalled. Let’s just say that if I had been responsible for paying back my college tuition, I might currently be up to the fall break of my sophomore year, not including beer money. (Thanks, Mom and Dad, for the college fund.)
What is success? Obviously it’s in the eyes of the user of the word. But society traditionally defines it as equivalent to making money, at least when it’s used in tandem with a type of career.
“She’s a successful writer,” for example, does not really translate into, “She’s very talented, and the manuscript she has written looks marvelous in the bottom drawer of her dresser where she keeps it.” That’s just an example.
When we decided to adopt the Tyrant, Husband said to me, “If we do it, then this is going to be your thing.” He meant that I would have to push other career goals aside and focus on the raising of our brood, at least temporarily. He wasn’t being sexist. It didn’t make sense for him to quit his stable job to stay home with the kids so that I could start looking for a job, right? Plus I have always thought full-time employment seemed highly overrated.
The ugly truth, I suspect, is that I am afraid of failure, and so I welcomed the opportunity to step down from the high dive and focus on swimming across the pool. Raising a family, I thought, was predictable and doable and impossible to fuck up. For some reason I have not let myself think ahead to the teen years.
Hot Firefighter Husband harbors no such fears. After the Diva came home seven years ago, he had a mid-life crisis and left his long journalism career to become a firefighter. There have been obstacles along the way, but overall the switch has been a remarkable success for all of us, particularly those of us who’ve always had a hankering for men in uniform.
Now that I’m writing again, it feels like I’m inching my way toward some small semblance of success. I would like to think there is some earned money potential in my future, but based on the last 25 years it seems unlikely.
So what is success? I’m a full-time mother working two (very) part-time jobs and blogging. This year I will make enough money to buy a 1998 Buick LeSabre with 108,800 miles, a new TemperPedic mattress or some low-end breast implants. But since we’re living in a house we can barely afford and sending our kids to a pre-school that costs more than community college, I think we’ll spend the money on boosting our supplies of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, dental floss and bleach, all of which we utilize at an alarming rate, though never at the same time.
I’m trying to redefine success for myself and my family. I want my children to believe that being successful includes being happy and productive, even if the products involved are homemade chicken noodle soup and clean matching socks, but first I have to believe it myself. And if I’m wrong about this and success does indeed relate to how much money you make, then I might as well keep plugging along at trying to change society’s definition. After all, at this point, what have I got to lose?