At the beginning of the year, Jeff and I discussed what were his major purchase plans for the next 12-months. He always knew that kind of stuff in advance so it was ready information. We grafted those expenses (moderated for a single income, of course) into our household budget. Then we added another crucial line designed to meet my needs: "Allie’s pocket money." I looked at all the places where I draw fun from my spending and came up with a weekly amount that would let me do just enough of that to feel good. Not all, just enough. Little things like a lunch out now and then, an item or two of clothing a month, a few magazines, and the requisite latte. For some women it may be $5 a week, others may be able to afford as much as $30 a week. It depends on your budget and what makes you smile. Sometimes all it takes is a $2 magazine and a hot bath with no interruptions. Other days…

The important thing is that those purchases were mine to make without any necessary forethought or approval. I had the opportunity to do the impulse buying that gave me a bit of fun in my life. If I wanted to blow a month’s worth of pocket money in one frivolous impulse purchase, that was my choice. Or, I could judiciously dole it out to myself over the month with little goodies each week.

Sure, it may seem like a little thing or you may only have a small amount of money to do this, but I have no doubt that this purchasing power played a large role in maintaining my self-esteem, happiness, and even sanity in those months of adjustment. It's recognizing that we have come from a working world that centers--like it or not--in monetary value, and that we need to take steps to ease the transition.

More than that, however, is that this strategy recognizes the emotional strain of our new job. It fosters my ability to take the steps that will keep my spirits as strong as my antiseptic wipes. The deliberate act of giving myself a line item in our family budget that was purely for my personal enjoyment validated my worth in this family. A financial expression that my happiness mattered. Many of my friends who made the transition to at home tell me of missing bringing home a paycheck and the worth they felt it gave them. I never mourned the loss of my breadwinner status because our family budgeting process affirmed my worth.

Money's tight when you cut off one income. You have to be extra careful. Don't do it, though, at the expense of your own empowerment--you're managing a family now--sometimes you know best of all what needs to be bought. I’d be shopping with friends and they’d remark that they ought to discuss it with their husbands before purchasing even a small such-and-such. I never needed a moment’s hesitation if it wasn't a major purchase (those were always, by agreement and at a specified dollar level, discussed first). If it was within my line item, I bought it. If it was something for the house or the kids, I knew what our budget was and if we could make the purchase. I was a family manager with an expense account, not a housewife waiting for her weekly allowance from Hubby’s paycheck. Such affirmation made all the difference in the world.

There was another unexpected side effect from this system. By luck at first, then by design, I cashed this paycheck in front of my children. Yes, I felt silly when, one day, we pulled up to the bank drive-through and my two-year-old son yelled "cheeseburger" into the window, confusing it with You Know Where. I discovered, however, my children rather admired my monthly paycheck. It was like a great, big, grown-up allowance to them. I suppose that's not so far from the truth, but when I explained that it was for the things Mommy likes to do and little fun things for all of us during the month, I believe they began to understand that well-being is important. That money is really just a tool, not an end in itself. Hopefully, that Mommy's job is just as important as Daddy's job.

Housekeeping did not, does not, probably will never come to me naturally. When we were first married, Jeff would often take out a drinking glass out of the cabinet, look at it, then wash it before using it. There’s no getting around it, Jeff is just plain cleaner and neater than I am. One quick look around our bedroom will tell you whose dresser is whose.

When I was working, he naturally did a majority of the cleaning because he was better at it. We can both spend 1 hour cleaning up a room, and I guarantee you Jeff's hour will somehow get the room much cleaner than my hour. This is embarrassing to me. I'm a woman, I'm supposed to be better at this kind of thing, right?

I've attended several Hearts at Home conferences out of town. Each time I go, I hear women all around me commiserating about the kind of shape their house would be in when they return. This kills me, because I know, without a doubt to save my self-esteem, that my house will be cleaner then when I left it. Once, just as I was heading out the door, I actually heard my husband say to our kids, "O.K, now we can really get this house into shape." Big, sticky slice of humble pie.

Now that I was home full time, I got a new job description that included ALL the housekeeping. I mucked around (and I do mean muck) for a few months until a friend set me onto Don Aslett’s "Is there Life After Housework?" It is a no-nonsense, practical guide to how to clean and keep a house. I read it from cover to cover. Over and over. I have since found several others, but this still remains my favorite book on the basics.

Much to my glee, this book took a rather business approach to housekeeping. It had a list of what to do when. Ha! That's exactly what I needed! A plan. I love plans. I programmed the book’s housekeeping schedule into my electronic organizer. You may be laughing, but I know that if it’s not on a list I'm lost. If my to-do list doesn't actually tell me to clean the refrigerator, I have learned that I will not look at the refrigerator and think, "Gosh, this needs cleaning." My brain just doesn't work that way. I could not rely on my instinct to get the job done.

I had to wise up to the fact that I needed to learn this skill.

This isn't such a foreign idea, just a foreign application. Think about it: if I had been asked to use a new computer program at work, I wouldn’t dream of sitting down in front of my monitor expecting the procedures to come to me by osmosis. I’d grab a manual, or take a class, or find the instruction I needed to get proficient.

This new job description is no different. It’s robbing yourself to do any less with the many skills required for motherhood. You've got to learn them. But where? Some of us have extended families nearby that have mentored us from the beginning. I, like most women these days, didn't. That mentoring process rarely happens naturally within families anymore. So we, as professionals, need to give nature a jump-start. Here's where women continually hold up the Hearts at Home organization as their only source of "mommy school." Mom training. Motherhood 101. What could be more relevant for us than a conference devoted entirely to the training and development of at home mothers?

It's not just conferences that send us home with books and tapes. The world is brimming with hidden teachers on the fine art of motherhood. One day, when we finally had the guts to admit to each other how hard it was to keep house, our church's mothers group hit upon a simple but astounding idea. We asked a group of older women renown for the housekeeping to come and share the tricks of the trade. What an affirmation for the older women, what an education for us rookie Moms! Some of the advice I received that day changed my life significantly. In addition, it was wonderful to hear from those older moms that they felt things were harder for us these days. The harsh realities of today's society means our kids are much more underfoot then we were to our parents. It was encouraging to have women say how much they respected the challenges we faced.

Find those who are good at what you need to know and let them share their knowledge. Chances are you’ll both be blessed and you may end up with a new friend in the process.

There was a time, right when kindergarten started, when Amanda was rather unhappy. Part of that may have come from the fact that she was now five. In my experience, the terrible two's have nothing on the fearsome fives. It's another of those things you just have to gut through. Remember your parents sighing "it's just a stage"? They weren't too far off, you know.

I could no longer cope with Amanda's constant unhappiness. It was tough going. Lots of crying. My normally bubbly girl was a lump of misery. No one--neither Jeff nor I nor her teachers--could find a path to success.

Finally, in an act of desperation, I flopped down beside her on her bed. I stop here and point out that I sat beside her. That sounds minor, but I have found that if you sit beside you child, you are talking with them. All too often if I sit in front of them, I fall into talking at them. We sat in silence. Eventually, I said something to the tune of "I can't figure out why you're so unhappy. Can you tell me what's wrong?"

After the usual list of 5-year-old grievances, a tiny shred of evidence came out. "You and Christopher get to stay home all day," she said, "And I have to go to school."

This, I knew, was big stuff. "Tell me more," I said.

Parents, engrave "Tell me more" on your foreheads. When your child finally articulates a problem, remember to say this rather than to jump in with your idea of a solution. You'll be flabbergasted by what you learn.

Amanda felt that Christopher was getting the much better deal, staying home with Mom. I don't know if she thought we broke out the hot fudge sundaes the minute we put her on the bus or something, but she was convinced we were having loads of fun in her absence. It didn't matter how much fun kindergarten was if your little brother didn't have to go and you did. I had to respect that.

"Amanda," I offered after she had talked for a good long while, "You're learning one of the biggest lessons in life. The simple truth is you can't always do what you want." I let it sink in, in silence, for effect. This was the mother of all teachable moments, right? Dr. Spock-- maybe even Dr. Laura--would be so proud.

"No," countered Amanda, screwing up her face in deep thought. "That's not the biggest lesson in life." She had her own idea of Life's Biggest Lesson. Somehow God gave me the grace to hush up and let her have the floor.

"The Biggest Lesson in Life," she pronounced, "Is that you cannot give your baby brother back."

Oh my. Deep, deep stuff.

Big, hard issues for a five-year-old. We talked more about it, with my taking extra-extra care to show I respected her feelings. Just to see where it led I asked, "Well, what do you think would happen if we drove by the hospital and told them you were unhappy with your new little brother?"

I wasn't really surprised to learn she'd thought through this already. "Nope," she replied, "He's much bigger now. They'd know. They wouldn't take him back." It somehow seemed to appease her, however, that I had even dared to ask such a question. In a few minutes we started talking about how cute he was at times. I told her--in precise detail--how CJ and I had spent our day while she was gone. I let her know having a colicky baby in the house has been hard on all of us, and that there were times even Mommy wished things were different.

Things got infinitely better after that. Not perfect, but better.

Most management books will tell you that often the best solutions come from the rank and file.