Re: Work

Like a child on her first day of school, I set out this morning for a new adventure. J-man is
almost two and a half, and so for the last three years my life has almost exclusively been about him. But not today. Today I start a new job. A new career, really. One that will require complete dedication. One where I compete with twenty-somethings willing to work twenty-four hours a day. A job where being a mom is a liability. Today I tip-toed around the house and was out the door before J-man awoke.

Last year I couldn’t do this. J-man was still waking multiple times per night, staying up well past 10pm, and my only real sleep was in the period of the morning that I used today to shower, dress, and have a quick bite. I spent almost two years walking around like a total zombie. Today I feel ready. J-man is almost a real little boy and he doesn’t really need his mommy to get him ready for pre-school. His dad is more than capable of taking care of that.

The real problem is that I am not totally certain that I am ready to let go. Okay, that’s a lie; I
know that I am not ready to let go. I am distraught about not being there when he wakes up.
Beside myself, really. I am afraid of how much I will miss, the important time, and I resent that
the only way I can improve professionally is to take time away from my family. He has grown up so fast, and not seeing him in the mornings, not taking him to daycare… well, it plain ol’ breaks my heart!

When I think about it rationally, I actually think it will be good for the relationship between J-man and his dad. He is a wonderfully loving father, but my overbearing mothering style allows him to be a bit stand-offish. I am clearly the primary parent. Not by necessity but by design. This does not mirror the family that I grew up in nor is it the stereotype that I want J-man to internalize. It is also probably a bit selfish as frankly I don’t leave them as much space as I probably should.

In any event, mother guilt and my broken heart aside, today I discover what it will really take
to balance a true career with being the mom that I want to be. Today I start to depend on my
spouse, my parents, and our friends. Today the saying “it takes a village to raise a child” will be put into practice. Today I learn to cope with sharing my time, my life, my son. Wish me luck — it is a new adventure.

-Sleepwalking Mama

[image: vintage scale via Pinterest]

Guilt

I am a half-Irish (lapsed) Catholic who also happens to be an only child. So to
say that I have a lot of experience with guilt would be an understatement.

Without a doubt, some of the worst guilt of my day strikes me during the period
of 9 to 5, Monday to Friday. I know all moms work, but I happen to have a
traditional 9-to-5, out-of-the-house, coffee-breaks-at-10-and-2 kind of job. Which
means I wake up at approximately 6:20 every day. I am out of the house by 7:35
(7:45 means NO daycare parking to be had) and at my desk by 8:30. I leave my
desk by 4:30 and am on Lakeshore Boulevard by 4:45 (4:55 means an extra 20
minutes in gridlock), and at the daycare by 5:20, and home by 5:40. We eat as
a family, most days — yes, I will accept a pat on the back for that — and then
bed and bath are completed by 7:00. Phew. It is a tight schedule, but it works.
If “works” means we all survive and sometimes manage to enjoy ourselves. (Side
note: The slow cooker has saved my life.)

So, guilt. Today as I walked to the photocopy room, I suddenly wished W was
there. I wished we were holding hands. I wished I could see him, just for a
second. It wasn’t a fleeting moment; it was a real, palpable wish.

Across from my office there is a grocery store where I buy something — lunch,
milk, lottery tickets — three days out of five. While I am in the store I spend most
of my time talking to babies. For real. There are so many moms in the grocery
store in the middle of the day, it is unreal. Most of the babies are little and in their
car seats (wistful sigh for the days when I could grocery shop with W strapped
into a seat), and I am okay with those babies. I recognize that the mommies
are on mat leave. But sometimes the babies (okay, they are children) look like
W. They are his age. They are precious and precocious and running down the
aisles. They are adorable and funny and I almost burst into tears some days
wishing W was there. Wishing that I could be in the store at 11:00 a.m. on a
Wednesday with my sweet, precocious boy.

Then I realize I am staring and I move along to the pre-packaged salads.

As you have read, W loves daycare. He is happy and fine, but am I? Am I okay
with things? Should I feel guilty for even thinking about MY happiness? Probably.
I miss my little guy so much sometimes at work that my heart aches. Sometimes
I secretly wish that my husband and son would just magically appear at my desk
after a meeting. Is this normal? I don’t know anymore.

I have a co-worker, whom I love, who has two boys. She says the silver lining of
work is eating lunch and peeing whenever you want. She is right. But it is sad.
That is our silver lining, which is…I don’t know what it is. On weekends, I eat
whenever I can, and W comes to pee with me, and I am actually pretty okay with
it.

I don’t know what the future holds jobwise, but as the words “Toddler Room”
and “Preschool” start getting tossed around, I realize I am making spreadsheets
and PowerPoints instead of Play-Doh figures and bubbles in swim class.
And today it is weighing on me. Maybe it won’t next week, but today I would
have traded it all for W to magically appear beside the photocopier, but even
during the WORST barf-fuelled, hellish moments I have NEVER wished for the
photocopier to magically appear.

-Tightrope Mama

[image source: University of the Arts London]

Superwoman

Spare time? Like fuck! In my spare time I try to sleep and eat and occasionally take a shower —though even that all gets short shrift.

I hate superwomen. I survived cancer without missing a beat — and for the most part without
missing a class in my last year of professional school. I had my tumour removed in between
applying and arranging interviews for my post-grad job placement. I did my interviews five days after surgery, on oxi, and landed the placement I wanted. I did chemo while keeping up with course work. I like to think of myself as strong, dedicated, and organized. But being a working mom is impossible.

I am a fighter, I take on any challenge put in front of me, and most of all I LOVED my job — pre-baby. Being a working mom is, and I will say it again, impossible. I now ask myself everyday what the hell I’m doing and why I bother. I buy lottery tickets in the hopes that one day I won’t have to do it all and worry about how to pay the bills. I would probably still do parts of my job voluntarily if I won millions, but I would do so on my own terms and without outside pressure.

I have taken off almost as many days in the last month as I’ve worked. I know this is not an
arrangement that works for me or for my office. I am sure there are co-workers who feel for
me, who help and pick up my slack, but there are also those who resent it. I thought I WAS
superwoman, but I now know she doesn’t exist. She is no more real than the tooth fairy.

Superwoman is a woman who climbs on the backs of other women — her nanny, her cleaning lady, her yoga instructor, and her executive assistant — and then claims victory.

I no longer strive, or believe it is possible, to be a good mother and a superwoman. I choose my baby, to hell with the rest of them, and watch out if you get in my way!

-Sleepwalking Mama

[image: Superwoman. Art by John Sikela. Source: Wikipedia]

Powerless

I just found out I didn’t get a job in the small Ontario town where I am moving with
Sir Dick and the Guppins.

In the small Ontario town, there is only one game that suits my profession and it’s
a biggie.

It was a good position, one that I felt I deserved, and indeed I was short-listed.

It’s possible that, had I not been woefully sleep-deprived and vaguely depressed,
I may have had the energy to prep more for the telephone interview. Prepped at
all, really. Okay, I would say by my standards I winged it. And I blew it. I wasn’t
surprised to get the very polite, if not encouraging, rejection letter. It would have
made things easy. Things haven’t been easy, professionally. I work in the arts.
Which is what I was doing when I was pregnant — discovered I was pregnant.
I was on track to take over a fantastic position. I was being groomed. I found
out I was pregnant exactly one week after my first day covering my colleagues’
maternity leave who would soon be resigning. I had driven across the continent
with belongings and dog with the full intention of moving, forever.

It took me a while to figure out what was going on; I thought maybe it was
menopause. Not unheard of at age 40. My older, wiser friend urged a pregnancy
test. Ridiculous, I thought. It’s the flu.

But no, I was pregnant. I phoned Sir Dick, he reacted negatively, and I cut him
out of my life. How could I do this to him? 3,000 kilometres’ distance, and a lot
of ignored emails. I was experiencing an extreme sense of self-preservation- it
apparently kicks in with pregnancy. A friend described it as “the bullshit meter” in
low tolerance/ high detection mode.

While I was pregnant, I planned. I planned to get my job. I planned childcare, I
planned finances, I planned letters of reference, and I planned an amazing plan.
I made the final interview. It was down to three. It should have been a slam dunk.
I flew home to have the baby, prepared to fly back in five months to start my job,
single mother, Leader, actualized woman of the millennium.

But it didn’t happen. For some horrible terrible tragic reason it didn’t happen.
Despite the fact that I put in ten hours a day for seven months, worked my butt
off, worked my relationships, raised funds for the company, and weathered crisis
after crisis. I lived like pioneer in a cabin in the woods with a wood stove and
no electricity, chopping kindling, getting my water delivered in a garbage can.

(At this point you might be asking what is it exactly that would make her want
this job, right? I know.) I gave it my all. I did my best. But they gave the job to
someone else.

What followed was devastation, pure and simple. And no one back home could
understand. Because I had done it alone. I had planned alone, and I lost alone.

I am not seven months pregnant at this interview. …no, this time my rising belly
gives no rising questions. This time I want the job less. It’s an easier job, easier
than full-time mothering. I would have Sir Dick living with me, helping. I would
have support in this small Ontario town.

But not to be.

The Guppins recently began throwing little fits. Tossing her self on the floor and
scooting away from me. Crying out.

“She’s not even two,” I question a friend.

She tells me,

“At this age, they begin to discover how they are powerless.”

I am more careful. I no longer expect The Guppins to do what I want, what is
convenient. I try to provide options. I am more careful. “She is not a sack of
potatoes,” I tell myself. “I can’t just toss her around.”

And I never leave her alone.

The tantrums are becoming less frequent.

So how do I stop tearing myself up inside? Banging my fists? Crying out?

I tell my Momma friends the advice I try so hard to give to myself:

Be gentle. Tell yourself you love yourself many, many times a day. Say it out
loud even though it feels stupid. I love you I love you I love you. We are our best
advocate and friend. We are our biggest critic.

And if my Grey Mamma can take the easy-ride seat for pregnant ladies even though she isn't pregnant anymore, but then one morning turn it around and bravely tell some lady to F off because she’s NOT pregnant, then I can deal with this. I can deal with being powerless.
I can turn it around.

-Drama Mama

I Don’t Know How She Does It

Last night, after Lo was in bed and I had tidied up, put a load of laundry in,
poured myself a glass of wine, and wrapped myself up in a very cozy housecoat,
I rented a movie. I decided to rent I Don’t Know How She Does It  with SJP. I was in the mood to watch Carrie all growed up!

As I lay there with eyes barely open, I found myself getting very irritated as it became
VERY clear how Carrie does it. She does it with

• a nanny
• money
• an assistant
• available grandparents
• a nice house
• great schools
• a car
• a good job
• a supportive husband
• a best friend who has it worse off (always good for the ego)
• and of course…beautiful clothes and shoes (so predictable).

The list could go on…

This movie was so self-indulgent to the point of insulting. I am sure the purpose of the
movie was to show the plight of the mother in modern society — a movie for all of us
tired moms, so we can put our feet up and say “Yeah, how do we do this?” But all this
movie really accomplishes is to show that even rich, married, educated, supported
women struggle with being a mother. Duh!!

I just wish for once there was actually a movie about how the everyday woman struggles
with being a mother. A movie that portrays strength instead of weakness, a movie
that portrays the journey of discovery instead of helplessness, a movie that shows the
struggles while sharing the message that it is okay to struggle…instead of always trying
to keep it together.

Okay, okay...in the end, because Carrie is so educated, smart, resourceful, and
practical, she does break the glass ceiling, but does it really take a nanny, an assistant,
grandparents, a best friend, a boss who is in love with you, and a partner to do that?

If so, I am screwed.

-Gray Mama