I raised my kids as a waitress in a small town and it made us a better family

Jennifer McGuire used to resent her job as a waitress and felt it represented poor choices she had made. Fifteen years later, she's come to see it as a blessing.

I raised my kids as a waitress in a small town and it made us a better family The service industry taught me some valuable lessons about community This First Person article is the experience of Jennifer McGuire, who lives in Owen Sound, Ont. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ. I have waitressed for the better part of two decades — in nightclubs and diners, in roadhouse restaurants and pubs.

Sometimes I think everything I’ve ever experienced in my life happened while I was working in a restaurant. I met the man who would become my husband when we were working together in a pub. We had our wedding reception at the same pub, taking the night off to eat cake while I worried about who would clean up the mess tomorrow.

I found out I was pregnant, and pregnant again, and again, and again, while working in a restaurant. I went back to work when each of my four baby boys were so small it physically hurt to be away from them, my breasts leaking milk and my body refusing to fit into my uniform. But there was no paid time off for waitresses, and I had to get back to it if I wanted to pay my rent.

I can’t even count the hours I spent standing against the prep counter in the kitchen, marrying the ketchups or refilling the salad dressings. Modifying orders of fish and chips, extra tartar sauce on the side. Separating bills for customers who said they didn’t want separate bills.

Drinking coffee and rolling cutlery up in little napkin beds during that perfect golden half hour before the doors are unlocked and the day begins. How I resented being a waitress. It made me feel slighted, let down and punished for every wrong turn I ever made in my life.

It was never what I wanted. I wanted to go to college and get an education. I wanted to build a life of security, comfort and joy.

That's why I was sure waitressing had to be a temporary phase. I was so sure that I bought a T-shirt from the clearance bin at Old Navy that read “Just a Waitress Until I’m Discovered” and wore it with a smirk. So full of Gen X angsty confidence that I was meant for something better.

I realize now that I owe waitressing an apology. It made me a better person, a better listener, and most of all, a better mom. Especially once I became a single mom.

After I left my husband and moved back to my hometown in Owen Sound, Ont., with four small children and not even a dime in my savings account, I took a job at an Italian roadhouse restaurant called Joe Tomato’s. I memorized the ingredient list for panzerottis and sold half-price wings to local sports teams on Wednesdays. "Just for now," I told myself at the time.

"Just until something better comes along." It turns out that job was the better thing that came along. It turned out to be the making of us as a family.

The weird hours I worked — a mix of night shifts and day shifts — were perfect for raising kids on my own. Enough nights off to establish a solid homework routine. Enough days off to sneak each of them out of class early for a little mental health break, some solo time with me to get an ice cream cone, play on the swings, just talk.

I volunteered on field trips and was there for school drop-off. Sure, I didn’t get much sleep, but I was there. Waitressing reintroduced me to the town I’d left as a child.

It became my social life. I had regular customers who became friends and co-workers who remain friends to this day. Word spread quickly that I was raising my kids on my own in that small town.

One customer baked cookies for my kids. Another bought them matching Christmas pyjamas. Construction workers whom I served weekly club sandwiches shovelled our driveway after a big snowstorm.

I took the many perks of the job for granted. The tips, of course, but also the staff meals. That 50 per cent discount for the whole family on dinner a few times a month.

Being able to sit in a restaurant and let them order a burger, pizza or just some fries while they played hangman on the placemats. The dignity of eating in a restaurant I could not otherwise afford. The funny thing was, working in the service industry didn’t end with me.

My older sons worked at Tim Hortons in high school and continued the family tradition. They brought home treats for their little brothers, such as unsold bagels to toast for breakfast before school the next day. They learned how to deal with people, work with adults, overcome their shyness and make eye contact with customers.

Their jobs helped our family, and I felt such shame about that at the time. I felt like a constant failure. A mother whose sons were providing before they were old enough to provide.

But of course, now I see. They were building who they were then. They were young men of the world and proud to contribute.

Excited to help their family thrive. They became their own part of our small town. They made friends with the regulars and came home with stories of drive-thru misadventures and mini melodramas.

Their work knit together our shared history and the story we would someday tell about our lives. Eventually, I stopped waitressing as I started writing a column for my local paper when my sons were teens. When I look back on that time, I now miss being a waitress.

I miss the changeability of every day. I miss the lives I don’t get to see anymore. The Red Hat Society ladies coming in for their lunch.

Christmas parties, first dates, girls’ nights out, family reunions. The quiet of a 3 p.m. lull. The raucous chaos of a Friday night rush.

The collection of beautiful little details I squirrelled away about my customers. Who didn’t like ice in their water, who had a May birthday, who was allergic to onions. Being “just a waitress” made me who I am.

And I’m finally so glad I was never “discovered.” Do you have a compelling personal story that can bring understanding or help others? We want to hear from you.

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