One hundred and seventeen thousand dollars per year. That's my worth preceded by a dollar sign, according to the life insurance ad that the kids pulled out of our mailbox. If my husband wanted to insure me, to hire my replacements, he should have at least $117,000 available annually. Cash value of a homemaker.
I've spent years of my life doubting my worth because I wanted to make a home for my husband and children. I suppose a paycheck is some sort of external validation that you are smart, accomplished, a valuable asset to society. So it is nice to know that Someone Out There places such a high cash value on what I do here each day. After all, it's a lot more than my husband makes in a year, and I have always maintained that he couldn't afford me.
But it's also silly. A person's worth and value aren't related to a dollar sign. A replacement? He couldn't hire one of those. There's no cash valuation of all a wife and mother does in a home. There's no dollar sign beside cuddles and kisses, read aloud books and Bible stories, laughter at the table, training for a chore, hugs in the kitchen, walks in the sunshine, crazy music while we work, family jokes, a cup of tea, a little discipline, a lot of love. Can Bryan afford me? Not a chance in the world. I'm priceless.