Signs I’m a Mom

By Sara A.

Obvious signs I'm a mom...

I like inventories.  They are fun to read, fun to write and a great way to concisely organize my thoughts. You can expect them from me often.  To start with, I thought I'd document the many obvious signs that I'm a mom.  The idea came to me this morning as I was drying my hair with a toddler clinging to my leg, while trying to drink my coffee and send a text at the same time.  "Only a mom has to deal with this" I thought.  This sent my mind reeling thinking of all the other obvious signs I am a mom, which have now been documented here for your delight.  Some are silly, some are serious...all, I hope, are relatable.

1. I can multitask like a pro.
2. I know what it means to love unconditionally.
3. I have snacks on my person or in my bag at all times.
4. I've been peed and pooped on more times than I can count....and managed to find it charming.
5. I know exactly where to kiss boo-boo's and owies to make them feel better.
6. I've mastered "the look."
7. I drive a mini-van.  And I love it.
8. I no longer swear out loud.  Just in my head.  And I do so liberally.
9. I'm scarier when I whisper than when I yell.
10. I love my husband more now that I ever believed possible when I married him.  And we were head over heels then.
11. I can function on 3 hours sleep on a consistent basis.
12. I sometimes put the milk in the pantry and my keys in the freezer.
13. I've left a load of laundry in the washing machine over night and forgot to move it to the dryer.....more times that I'd like to admit.
14. I am chronically late.
15. I regularly find spills or stains on my clothes that I KNOW weren't there when I got dressed in the morning.  They usually appear on my legs below my knees or around the neck of my shirts.
16. I know the difference between an Ergo, a Bjorn and a Moby.  And I have strong opinions on each.
17. I've memorized Goodnight Moon, The Sleepy Little Alphabet and Chicka-Chicka-Boom-Boom and can be relied upon to recite these on the fly in any situation.
18. Mary Poppins is in the CD player in my van.
19. I've been to more Recess Monkey's performances than any other band.
20. There are toys on my bathroom floor at all times.  I regularly step on them but can't be bothered to move them, as they will instantly reappear.
21. The majority of movies and shows recommended to me by Netflix are meant for children.
22. I haven't slept past 8:00 am on a weekend in 4 years.
23. Solitary trips to Target and Costco are considered "me time."
24. There is always sand somewhere.  Always.
25. Anything important or valuable in my home is stored or displayed at a height above 5 feet.
26. Happy Hour is the one hour between the time my kids go to bed and me passing out on the couch.
27. I own 5 car seats, 4 strollers and 3 baby carriers.
28. I feel an overwhelming urge to kiss tiny toes and to rub my face against baby skin.  I get giddy over that "baby smell."
29. I've been known to sway while standing in line to pay for my groceries.
30. Nothing makes me more content than walking in the sun with a sticky hand holding mine.
31. I'm used to repeating myself.
32. I am asked "why" at least 50 times a day.  Often more.  I usually have an answer.
33. I look at Zulily daily.
34. Whenever I see a mom nursing her child I smile and want to give her a high-five.
35. I can't listen to stories about bad things happening to kids.  I refuse watch the news because it's so stressful.  
36. I have an entire drawer in my kitchen devoted to sippy cups.
37. I am never bored.  Seriously, never.
38. I have multiple boards dedicated to various "kid" topics on Pinterest.
39. When I say my family I no longer mean my mom, dad and sister.
40. I have stretch marks.  
41. There are bulk boxes of Annie's mac & cheese in my pantry.
42. Organic fruit/veggie squeeze pouches are considered a treat in my home.
43. I now understand just how much my mom loves me.  I no longer find it weird (or not AS weird) that the first thing she wants to do when she hasn't seen me in a while is smell me.
44. I will punch you if you ring my doorbell during nap time.  Especially if I have managed to get both my children to sleep at the same time.
45. A ridiculous amount of my income goes to paying for childcare.
46. I know that my dog really isn't a surrogate child.  She doesn't even come close.
47. I consider what schools are in a given neighborhood to be a better indicator of it's desirability than what restaurants it has.
48. The faintest of whimpers will wake me from a dead sleep and I am instantly on high alert.
49. My boobs are shrunken and saggy.
50. I know that my life is more complete, more joyous and more meaningful than I ever could have imagined.

The Arts & Parenting

By Sue



Several months ago I attended the NYC Arts in Education Roundtable Face to Face Conference. I looked forward to this conference all year, because I knew I would be in the company of fellow arts educators (and selfishly around my former colleagues who I still miss). (There I am in an art workshop led by the education team at the Queens Museum of Art.) The conference plenary session was titled The Arts and Early Childhood Education, which is a timely topic given the NYC new universal pre-k. While PJ isn’t quite ready for pre-k, I listened, trying to soak up any information I could. Eventually, I noticed my mind wandering to this question:

How has my experience as an arts educator/administrator shaped my parenting style?

I don’t remember anything from the session after that question entered my thoughts.

First and foremost, I value the arts. All of them. Visual. Dance. Theatre. And especially music. I see art everywhere, not just in museums. I admire great design. I enjoy observing art in the theater or at a dance performance. And I love to listen to music live or on a recording. I believe that art serves a very special purpose in this world, even if I don’t have the words to explain what that purpose is. My definition of the arts centers somewhere around the idea of reflecting beauty back to us. Obviously, I love the arts as evident from my career choice. And if it’s not yet already obvious, I want to raise PJ to appreciate (and hopefully participate in) the arts. Why? I thought you’d never ask!

Flexibility to Try New Things

Some of my earliest memories are of singing, performing, learning to embroider (my big sister was learning, so obviously I wanted to also). Both my parents are creative people. Not in a formal way - neither studied an art form. That did not stop them from creating beautiful oriental rugs (mom) or creating the character of Dr. Von Speckle Bottom (dad) who entertained at parties. These early experiences with my parents’ creative outlets gave me aspirations to try new things and stretch myself. 

As I’ve grown older, I have come to recognize this as flexibility, a willingness to try, and - John’s favorite rule from improv - say “Yes, and….” Tina Fey and Rachel Dratch both describe this better than I ever can in their respective memoirs. But here goes - When improvising a scene, always say, “Yes, and…” If your fellow improviser/actor/comedian/partner says, “Can you believe the rain today?” Respond with something like, “Yes, and the thunder is so loud…” It helps to move the story forward. The alternative is saying no and stopping the forward motion of the scene, and essentially communicating, “Your idea is no good, my idea is better, I’m more important…” John and I wrote “Yes, and…” into our wedding vows.

As an elementary age student, my family was very involved with the Boy Scouts. I spent the summers attending the day camp which my mom was the director of (I was a member of the Pixies, the daughters of the moms who worked camp). We made crafts. We performed skits. We learned hundreds of songs. All of this was just what we did. It wasn’t because it was educational, although sometimes it was. It was fun. It was a chance to do new things. To play. 

Those general art experiences set me up for a lifetime of trying new things - performing, crafting, creating. While I studied music formally in college, have had the chance to perform professionally, worked with professional artists on a variety of cool projects, and consider myself an artist, I know there will always be someone doing these same things in a more formal capacity - creating art for museums, practicing for the concert stage, writing the next Pulitzer Prize novel. And yet, I continue to stretch myself. Because it makes my life more enjoyable. That's what I want for PJ. 

By providing opportunities to explore the arts, to be confident, to be comfortable being silly in front of a group of kids, to dance when she feels the need, and to write poetry. I learned this from my parents, developed flexibility through my training, and want to share it with her. 

Creative Problem Solving

Another skill I learned from the arts is creative problem solving. As a student trying to master an aria for one of my juries, I would not have called it that. I would have referred to the process as practicing. It would be years before I would come to recognize this process for what it was - solving a problem. In the case of my singing, the problem was memorizing the music and words, along with giving an artistic performance using the best vocal technique possible. The way I memorize music works for me. No two people learn the same way, so the exercises I used were individualized for me. One of the greatest skills a teacher can possess is the ability to be able to identify how best to communicate with each student. You have to be able to reflect on what you are doing (or not) and make adjustments. It's basic problem solving. And the great thing is there is no right answer to how you approach the problem.

This reminds me of PJ and of all toddlers. As she explores her world and tries to figure out problems (How do I open this? Where is Bunny? How do I put my shoes on?), there is no one right way to solve her predicament. *This does not mean there is not a more efficient way that John and I can assist with, nor does it mean that we are always so patient... She will figure it out, the way she is meant to. As her parent, it’s my job to get out of the way and let her do it. To step aside, be patient, and encourage her to figure it out. During the process, she might learn something else. And more importantly, she will learn to persist, to make mistakes, maybe even fail (GASP!), and continue to try again. And that’s where she will grow and develop the most. 

It’s not easy for parents (and teachers) to get out of the way for this learning to happen. But I do my best. 

Community

Several years ago, a report released by Chorus America brought to light information choral singers already know - we are community minded. This is not surprising given the type of music we perform. A choir will meet regularly (weekly in my most recent experiences, or even daily in the case of my college experience) to rehearse as a group. There are four main groups of singers (Sopranos, Altos, Tenors and Basses) and there may be some divisions of these groups (Soprano I, Soprano II, Alto I, Alto II, etc.). We rehearse as a group. We learn the music as a group. We aim to blend our voices so there is a unified sound. We are part of a community. 

In college, it is easy to feel part of a community. Remember leaving notes on the whiteboard of your friends’ rooms (pre-cell phone obviously)? Afterwards, it takes effort. I was warned by a wise alumnus to find a choir after graduation. She said, “You will need it. You will miss it.” And I did. I felt a loneliness that was/is only filled by music being sung by a choir. 

2010 was a year to remember. John and I were planning our wedding. I was working on having an article published in a book. And I had the opportunity to join a choir, something I had been meaning to do, but was having a hard time finding the time and finding the right group to join. A well-meaning colleague advised against joining the choir, citing all of my other obligations. Yet that night, when I went to audition and heard the choir sing, I knew it was the right thing to do. I needed to sing, as much as I needed to be surrounded with others who love to sing. 

Parenting, for me, is much like singing. Both John and I recognize we are part of a community, a club now. And I thrive on the relationships I have developed from being a mom, sharing my experiences, and learning from others. This blog is evidence of that. 

There is also a sense of community in my neighborhood. There is Tommy from across the street with the black dog named Phoenix. And the gas station attendant we pass each day. And there are all the kids (and parents) at daycare and at the park. NYC is a much smaller place with this community. I’ve been in this neighborhood for 8 years, and it wasn’t until PJ was part of our lives that we really started to invest in our life here. I remember the sense of community I felt growing up. And now I know that PJ does too. 

Understanding My World

The last (for now) artistic benefit that has shaped my parenting style is how the arts have helped me make sense of this world. I don’t know how to say that without being wordy. Let me try to explain. 

One of the traits exhibited by all artists is reflection. Artists constantly look back at their work and find ways to improve. They also use life as inspiration to create, reflecting what they experience into something entirely different. For me, art helps me process my own experiences. In moments of joy, in hours of darkness, music has helped me understand my emotions. 

I think back to my birth story and know that music helped me stay strong and focused during labor. And the first song I heard after PJ was born will forever be linked to her. Or when faced with death, how Brahms gave me strength to carry on, finding peace in the knowledge that the final resting place, is indeed lovely. 

And while these particular moments are profound and carry deep meaning for me, PJ’s experience with music is very different. For now, she is learning her routines through the songs that we sing and accompany her every day activities, like the catchy ditties “It’s Bathtime” or “PJ Time for PJ.” And you can’t forget the other classics like “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” “Old MacDonald,” and “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” all of which have helped her learn new words, patterns and how to express herself. 

Come the end of a long day, PJ and I often snuggle and I sting to her. Sometimes it’s a version of “Dirait-on” with made up words. Most nights, I sing to her “In the Bleak Midwinter.” I’m not sure why. It’s a tune I’ve always loved. And I remember singing it that first summer when she was just a few months old. Perhaps it was wishful thinking that the room would be cold enough to sleep comfortably. Now I ask her sometimes as we are snuggling, “Should I sing In the Bleak Midwinter?” and I feel her nod against my shoulder. This is the song that brings her comfort. This tune has meaning for her.

When I read Willa Cather’s “A Wagner Matinee” in high school, I remember crying. I knew my life would be in the arts. It was a calling that can only be compared to my calling to be a mom. My life in music has opened me up to many fascinating opportunities, both to make music and to observe art in the world. Because of that, I have been changed for the better. If I can call upon these experiences to help PJ understand her world and grow to be the best person she can be, I will know I have done my best.

You Only Fail If You Don’t Try

By Jenny

A fact or circumstance bringing disgrace or regret. That is the definition of shame as I relate to it and as I see it and as how I felt when I wrote about my laboring experience for my previous entry here. When I first wrote that other blog entry I was writing under a pen name I had manufactured for the great American novel I am still attempting to write (random brilliant thoughts on post-it notes scattered throughout the house don’t count, do they?). After I sent the entry to the editor I requested that my “name” on the page change to my real name, Jenny. It felt dishonest to write something so open and truthful while hiding behind another name. I was still fooling myself, however. The blog entry was posted on a blog that had not been widely publicized or shared outside of the group of mama contributors. My first name the only used. And my accompanying picture one of me walking away. I was still able to hide. Until the editor posted my blog entry on her main Facebook page with a leading line of “For Those Mamas Who Delivered Via C-Section.” With 72 mutual friends I had no place to hide.

That night over dinner the conversation went something like this:

Me: So … Sue posted my c-section shame story on Facebook.

Hubby: Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

I might have coughed.

Hubby: Did you want her to post it on Facebook?

Me: No.

The sociologist Brené Brown has a brilliant talk on Ted Talks in which she speaks of shame and vulnerability. Toward the end of her talk she states “if you put shame in a Petri dish, it needs three things to grow exponentially: secrecy, silence, and judgment.” I was existing beautifully in this dish unbeknownst to me until my come-to-Jesus moment in that obstetrician’s office. Foolishly I believed that writing about the experience, the feelings of failure—of being one—would be enough to help guide me outside of the reach of that clutching Jungian shadow. Subconsciously, I must have known I was still being safe. The pit in my stomach when I not only saw the post on Facebook but then saw it tagged by another friend (now there really was no hiding) was enough proof for me to know my subconscious was still in control and had no intention of letting me out of that dark place; leaving me foolish until my next birth experience with all of its undealt with fears at the helm. And one of the worst things one can have at a second attempt to not repeat past mistakes is all of the baggage that comes with those mistakes.

Brown goes on to state “if you put the same amount of shame in a Petri dish and douse it with empathy, it can’t survive.” I didn’t plan to put myself out there in such a way; in a way where people I work with would now know something so intimate about me. Where friends, or rather acquaintances, were now basically invited in to my home, the door opened by another visitor and not by me. I didn’t want the attention because I feared the attention. I feared it all. I was in for a big surprise.

Some of the comments that I received:

The only one that failed was that doctor. You did the best you could with the circumstances you were given.

I deeply hope that you will have a next birth that you are satisfied and at peace with.

You were dealt a whole lot of crappy conditions … and yet you still managed to come out the other end with a beautiful, healthy baby and the courage to even discuss doing it again.

Great post, Jenny. It’s always nice to know that we all had things we wish we could have done differently.

That made me cry.

I cry when I read the comments. I still do. Days later.

I passive aggressively removed silence from that shameful Petri dish. Sue removed that and secrecy quickly and without pause. The judgment, I realized, was all my own. I secretly feared others would judge me for my weakness, for my lack of resolve. And I never wanted verification that my own self-judgment was to be mirrored and echoed by those around me. The comments I received proved otherwise.

I am far from being in a place where shame no longer exists. And I would be foolish to think that one blog post and one set of positive comments is going to change any of that. It will take some time until I can look back at my laboring experience and feel any of the strength I owned before contractions began. After all, I was the woman in my Lamaze class who proudly proclaimed that I was birthing my child; that the doctor was merely assisting. Somewhere in me that woman still exists; the woman who looked at the Monty Python labor sketch and vowed to not be the woman who was unqualified to give birth to my child.

In the early months of Henry’s life I liked to joke that he was my “test” baby. Whether you like the phrase or not, the truth is your first child—if you plan to have more—truly is your test baby. He is the baby you buy everything for (read Cristin’s brilliant chart for more on the difference here), the one you read every book for, the one you try every method for—CIO, baby-led weaning, etc. Part of my reclaiming of my strength, my warrior woman, is to see my first laboring experience as the test experience. That was my first trial and I will go in fighting with the next one. I might not win the fight—in the sense that I successfully have a VBAC—but I know I will win if I will give it my absolute all, to have every breath that passes my lips be in effort to have the experience I want. I will only fail again if I fail to try.

Body Image

By Sara A.

I love my body.  But I am still learning to like it.  Still learning to own it.  Over the course of the last 4 years it has been through so much.  It has carried two pregnancies, birthed two healthy beautiful boys and has nourished those boys for at least 13 months each.  In total, my body has been shared with another being for almost 4 years straight.

While I've been amazed and humbled by all that my body has been capable of, this process has left me feeling disconnected and distant from my body.  I look in the mirror and no longer recognize the body that I see reflected back to me.  Nor do I feel as comfortable in my own skin as I did before having kids.  

I think it all comes back to ownership.  I've given my body away.  For better or worse, it belongs to my children now.  It bears the marks that they have left behind.  This is what allows me to love it.  I love that I am so intimately connected to them.  That they have branded me for life.  Their marks are better and more cherished than any tattoo or piercing. They are real.  They are raw.

But loving the process and liking the outcome are very different things.  I'm having a hard time reconciling that the scars that brought me such joy are also responsible for making me feel so self-aware.  I am jealous of the women who flaunt their jiggly, scarred, real post-baby bodies and proudly exclaim that "THIS IS TRUE BEAUTY."   The women who can embrace with such courage these new vessels they've acquired.

I want to be that woman.  In my heart I am that women.   But in my head, I still want to do something about the stretch marks on my stomach and the pouch that seems to be a constant reminder that "you are a mom now."  

In all honesty, I think the truth is that my discomfort with the physical changes is really just a reflection of the profound inner changes I have gone through since having children. Pregnancy and parenting rock your world, physically and emotionally.  My emotional world is a land mine.  When I think of all the ways this world can (and in all likelihood will) hurt my children I am an absolute mess.  It is a feeling of complete and utter vulnerability.  I've never been in charge of the world, but before having children I at least had a sense that I had some control over it.  Since having kids, that veil has been lifted.

So, in the end, I focus on the physical.  I try to grasp at the last bit of control that I have. The only thing I might be able to control.  My body.

Laboring

By Jenny

Hello. My name is Jenny and I had a C-Section. Yes, I am holding up my hand as I state this. And, yes, I might as well be confessing that I have a problem with addiction because the same amount of shame is present. My c-section is not something I freely speak about. The last I spoke of it was in the hospital high off of the euphoria of no more pain and a darling little baby boy who was all mine. But then shame drew its shade around me and responses of “I don’t talk about it” were doled out to inquiring minds. About 7 months post-partum I convinced myself that I had come to terms with the c-section; the shame was gone, I was still a woman. I carried that child for nine months I screamed to myself! I breastfed for seven months! He ate avocado, carrots, beans, and apple long before a drop of cereal (and then it was only ground oats and barley) passed his lips. I stayed home with him for 14 weeks! And then no more than two days a week away from him for another 12 weeks. I was accomplished! I was a woman. A true warrior mother! I was managing operations for a world-class stage by day and pureeing market-purchased seasonal veggies by night. I wore my self-made badge (inspired by Pinterest boards, of course) with honor. 

We all know where this goes. Fast forward 18 months to the office of a wonderful team of obstetricians whose VBAC success rate is unheard of (at least for my small ears) and who were both quite curious to hear my birth story. Cue the “come-to-Jesus” moment. You have those, don’t you? That moment reality slaps you upside the head and you suddenly realize that everything you believed to be true was a flat out piece of bullshit you created to hide reality. Cue the water works too. Cue the truth of the matter—that I didn’t feel shame for having to have a c-section, I felt shame for the failure of not fighting hard enough to not have one. I was weak. I was not strong enough. I failed myself. The moments, the hours, the image of my husband collapsing in exhaustion and disappointment when the words “we have to perform a c-section” were uttered by the doctor are all burned in my mind. And they haunt me. I allow them to. We have been secret happy bedfellows for over two years now. 

The labor started innocently enough. Plans for brunch were canceled Saturday morning just in case the consistent cramping was a hint of what was to come. My husband and I stayed close to home, watched funny movies, spoke with family, and walked the parks. There is an image of my husband that still lives on my iPhone. He is speaking with his father on the phone and we are at the base of the Cloisters Museum. The sun caught the screen in such a way that his smile looks as if it is radiating light. It is my favorite image of him. That night after dinner (Chinese take-out that my husband still blames for some of our issues) the cramping subsided only to be replaced by the most unimaginable pain possible. There were attempts to sleep, to rest, but lying down or sitting was impossible. So we danced, we hugged, I hunched over on hands and knees “falling down like it’s holy ground” as one of my favorite songs puts it. Coupled with the sensation that my little innocent boy had been replaced by a beast who was pushing my spine out of my back while also digging ten little talons to rip the bones apart was nausea I never knew the likes of. And then the violent vomiting started. Emptied of all but the unshakable nausea that accompanied even the sight of water I banished my husband with his 3am power snack to another part of the apartment. 

My water broke finally around 5am (perhaps earlier, I can’t recall) but there was a vacant sunlight that greeted us on our city street when we hailed a cab and made our way downtown. I remember very little of the cab ride itself except the inner focus to not scream in public. For some reason I didn’t want to scare the cabbie. I should have held on to that resolve.

Once in the hospital I became impatient and irritable. I wanted pain medication after being forced to lay on a bed (the most painful position for me) but was denied because I was already 5cm dilated. And then the slap—there was meconium in the water. No birthing center. Yes to external monitor. No to walking away from the monitor or being able to unhook at intervals. Yes to being in bed. I begged my husband for an epidural for two hours until he relented and agreed to let me have it. And then the peace. Blissful peace. 

The attending OB was not my normal doctor. Instead I had the doctor I referred to as someone more suited for running the Miss Cleo tent at a circus. Our first and only appointment together she placed her hands on my belly and declared that not only would I have a big baby (“8 lbs at least”) but that it would be difficult (“we’re going to have issues getting that one out”). Needless to say when I first called the hospital when labor started and heard she was the attending I wanted to sew my knees together and hold out until Monday. But my boy had other plans.

So there I was in the hands of a doctor I didn’t trust who was telling me I had to have Pitocin, that my labor had stalled due to the epidural. Under the comforting explanation of a nurse—once the doctor left the room—I agreed to a low dosage of Pitocin. The doctor had other plans. She continued to come (or send in nurses) to up my dosage of Pitocin. I barely made a dissenting remark. Until it was too late. I protested that enough was enough and then the nurse declared I was at “10++cm” dilated and we could push. Except the baby was faced the wrong way and had not descended. And then the epidural wore off and my contractions refused to end. No break. Just a constant wave of pain that washed over me and from which I could not get up. Would not. 

I pushed for over two hours in various positions. My husband pushed to have me squat, to have gravity help with the baby descending. The doctor refused. The nurses were wonderful and encouraging. My doctor huddled in a corner on her iPhone texting. That is what I remember most from my labor. The woman who was supposed to help had instead checked out and was planning her evening while I screamed. I don’t remember what exactly led to the next string of events. A blur of images—my doctor stating he wasn’t descending, another doctor coming in to examine and stating the same, both stating a c-section was inevitable, my husband crumbling on top of me when I said “yes,” signing a set of squiggly lines so that they could administer the drugs to rid me of the pain. 

These days I try to remind myself of the brief moments of euphoria that descended whenever the nurse would invite me to push. I ached for those moments while in labor. But reminding myself of those moments reminds me all too much of the fight I did not put up. I gave in. In hindsight, I wish I would have focused on the beauty of those moments and I wish I would have used them as my anchor. Instead, whether the truth or not—and there’s something about writing these thoughts out that also make you question the validity of your statements—I succumbed to the pain and to the fear of more pain. I didn’t want to feel it again and I wanted whomever was closest to me to rid me of it. I lost sight of my own personal strength and resolve and fell under the wash of the pain. I am ashamed. I let my strength flee from me at that moment. I am not ashamed of having a c-section. They do happen and sometimes they are necessary. And at the end of the day I had a darling little boy who curled into a ball on my chest and fell to sleep. My husband and I talk about our next child. We hope for a VBAC. And I pray for strength.

ONE More

By Rachel

ONE more. This is what my 2 ½ year-old daughter says when she wants another book before bed. She drags out the word as long as she can, as if to promise that it is only really one more, that she will then go right to sleep without a fuss, and won’t ask for another.

I hear these words echo in my head a lot lately. As I write this, I am staring down at my infant son, who is sleeping soundly as he snuggles up on his mommy. It is his favorite place to sleep. We both find it calming and peaceful.

Tomorrow I am returning to work. He will be starting daycare at 14 weeks old, the same age my daughter was when she started. When she started daycare, I was terrified. She didn’t take a bottle until the last minute and wouldn’t nap in her bassinet. I liked the daycare but didn’t know the people very well yet. In my son’s case, these things are better. He takes a bottle beautifully and the teachers in the infant room are now old friends. So the fear is gone…but I find that I am left with more sadness. I am acutely aware, looking at him next to his sister, that he is tiny and new. He comforts best with me and smiles when he sees me. He is also my last baby. We are happy with our little family, and I am not getting younger.

People say to me, “You’ll be fine, he’ll be fine. It’ll just take a little time.” I know this. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to have to be in a situation where I have to hear it, because I am not ready to go back. I am not ready to stop holding him for hours each day. I am not ready to start filling bottles instead of nursing, something both he and I enjoy. In my daughter’s case, daycare really is school, and she learns and thrives there. I cannot give her what she gets there. But I can give my son, at this point in his life, everything he needs.  

I don’t know how much time I would want. Eventually, I would have to go back, and might even want to.

But for now, I want ONE more. One more day, one more week, one more month. Just ONE more.

Identity

By Sara A.

It is impossible for me to be honest about maintaining my identity without talking about why I choose to work. For me, the two are unequivocally connected. Working is the only thing that keeps me from losing myself completely to motherhood.

I had no idea what to expect from motherhood when Roo, my oldest, was born. I had friends who already had children and was given all the standard advise and heard all the lines that you tell new parents to be. Sleep while you can, sleep when that baby sleeps, learn to let things go around the house, let others help you, blah blah blah. But no one talked to me about how being a new mom would feel. No one told me about the love I would feel for this new little person, which is the purest and most intense thing I've ever experience. I didn't understand just how much heart would expand....to the point of busting...to the point that I would never be the same again. Roo instantly became my world. I devoted myself to him.

But devotion carries a heavy burden. Especially when you become devoted to a person who can do nothing, literally NOTHING, for himself. I quickly became consumed with the tasks of new motherhood.....breastfeeding, changing diapers, snuggling, soothing, etc. It was wonderful and magical. It truly was. But it was also hard. SO hard. Harder than I ever could have imagined. Just like I felt unprepared for the love that suddenly consumed me, I also felt unprepared for the work that consumed me. I was tied to this little boy by both love and duty. And it felt like there was really very little left for me. Very little left of me. Roo was it.

I remember my maternity leave with him so clearly. Those 8 weeks were some of the most joyous and life altering weeks of my life. But they were also the loneliest and scariest 8 weeks of my life. I felt really isolated. I'm lucky because I had a lot of support. Both my parents and my husband's were around a lot and gave me respite when I needed it. And my husband has always been active and engaged. After he returned to work he would still come home every day at lunch to spend time with us. But the majority of the time it was just Roo and me. And if you've ever spent any extended period of time with a newborn you know that they are not much for conversation. While incredibly engaging because of his very nature, my new baby really wasn't very engaging at all. I quickly forgot how to have adult conversation and I had very little outlet for all the new feelings I was experiencing or for my thoughts. When my husband would come home, at lunch or in the evenings, I would either be too overwhelmed to have any real conversation or I'd greet him with a non-stop stream of consciousness style rant. I also stopped really getting dressed and hung out mostly in black stretch pants and fleece.

I tried joining various "mommy" groups but I didn't ever feel like I really fit in with any of the other women. I can't say why exactly, other than I felt that the simple fact that we both have a small child was a pretty meaningless foundation for friendship. I also felt out of sorts when I spent time with my old friends. I felt that I suddenly had very little to contribute. I really had no idea what was going on in the world and didn't feel like my anecdotes about breast milk poops smelling like butter or baby spit up were real winners in mixed company. I started to miss work and the identity that I had established there. An identity that had nothing to do with my child or family but was just about me. I also missed the challenge and critical thinking that my work requires.

When my maternity ended I returned to work with a mixture of excitement, trepidation and guilt. But as soon as I walked in the door the first day back I felt almost giddy. I had missed this. A lot. I was really happy to be back in the world of adults and slowly felt like I started to get back to myself and who I was, or more, who I had become. Because it was obvious that I had changed. No longer was I willing I stay in the office until 7:00 pm to finish a project. No longer did I bring work home, or even think about it at home really. Because I was still devoted. I still am devoted. To Roo, Sealy, and our family. But that devotion can't come at the cost of me. It is a price that I am unwilling to pay. And a price that I think, in the end, would cost each of us dearly. To be the best parent that I can be I have to be at my best personally. And I can't do that without working.

I have two children now and over 3 years under my belt as a working mom. It is not always easy and there are lots of guilty days. But I've found that it is what works for me. Work provides me with a balance that I don't think I'm capable of achieving otherwise. And being a parent, a mom, I think has also made me better at my job. I have more balance there as well. I can't say that the choices I've made are right for anyone else. But I can say with certainly that working is the only thing that has kept me from losing myself completely to motherhood.