Work / Life Vertigo*

A friend of mine recently wrote an excellent blog post about her decision to leave her job after having her second child.  I really enjoyed reading her thoughts, especially because so many mothers have such strong opinions on this topic.  This is a decision I struggle with every day, and seeing as how my little Chooch is 13 months old today, I thought it would be a good time to revisit my somewhat neglected blog and share my own thoughts on the topic.

Before Choochie was born, I was working full time in college counseling and enrolled in a part-time PhD program in social work.  Josh and I had decided long before we got pregnant that I would leave my job (an incredibly hard decision, as I *loved* my job and almost everything about it), and focus on finishing my doctorate after the baby was born.  I also decided to take on some academic advising work, partially for the money, but mostly because I enjoy it and I wanted to keep my toes in the academic pond.

Chooch was born in late October, in the middle of the semester.  I was taking a writing class at the time, and I had done some extra work over the summer in anticipation of her birth.  I missed a total of three weeks of class around her birth – one week before as I was on bedrest, and two weeks afterwards.  With the help of my mother and Josh, I managed to finish out the semester and pass my class.

In the middle of January, when Chooch was almost three months old, I prepared to go back to class.  I was registered for two classes, and planned to pump in between.  One of the professors was even kind enough to offer me his office.  I went to the first day of class, and all I could think about was my daughter.  I didn’t give a crap about qualitative research, I couldn’t care less about social welfare programs, and I absolutely couldn’t wrap my mind around the idea of working on my comprehensive exams.  I just wanted to be with my baby.

Within the week I had met with my academic advisor and told her I was leaving the program.  I knew that I didn’t want to be a Stay at Home Mom (SAHM), but beyond that I had no idea what I did want.  I spent the next several months tormented.  I went on job interviews.  I took a creative non-fiction writing class.  I started a blog.  We put Choochie in daycare for two and a half days each week, partially because we both felt strongly that it would be a good experience for her, and partially because I had (mostly) decided not to be a SAHM, so the assumption was that I would find a job.  We didn’t want to give up a spot in a fantastic family daycare while I was trying to make up my mind.

I got a couple of job offers, but nothing I wanted.  I wrote a lot, I thought a lot, I talked to everyone I knew about what I should do.  Should I go back to the doctoral program?  Should I get a job?  Should I be a SAHM?  Josh and my friends and family were amazing and patient, listening to me fret and debate and stress and tangle myself up inside my own brain as I tried to make a decision.  Over the months, and the more I delved into the world of Mommying, I came to one conclusion.  I needed to do something related to my work or career.  It’s a huge part of who I am, and I just don’t think I can be happy not working.  That’s not to say that other SAHMs don’t have career aspirations – it’s just to say that on a day-to-day basis, I wouldn’t be happy staying home with a baby all day.  I get bored and frustrated, and increasingly grumpy, which isn’t helpful for either of us.  So, I figured that out, but I still didn’t know what that other piece was going to be.

And then Choochie got burned on Mother’s Day.  We took her to the doctor right after it happened on Sunday, and we had an appointment to take her to the Pediatric Burn Center the next morning.  I was so grateful that I could be with her all week, that I didn’t have a boss to call or a sick day to use or clients to call or meetings to reschedule.  I knew I had found my line in the sand.  I knew that I could not take a job that would make it hard for me to be with Choochie any time she needed me or I needed her.  (In the past, I have always had clients on my caseload that were suicidal or struggling with major mental illness, and I knew in that moment that I could only be responsible for one life – my daughter’s.)

Although my internal debate raged for a few more weeks, it wasn’t long before I had decided to return to the doctoral program, which I did this fall.  It turned out to be, in many ways, an ideal choice. I am part of an incredibly supportive and challenging academic and intellectual community, but I also have the flexibility I need.  I am currently taking one class, starting work on my comprehensive exams, and doing academic and thesis advising for students in two different MSW programs.  Choochie is in daycare four days a week, from 8-3:30.  Quite frankly, that’s one more day than I would like, but I need the time to get the work done.  I’m hoping to get a lot of research and writing done in the next few months so I can drop her back down to three days.  Daycare days are busy, filled with errands and meetings and class and homework, but my afternoons, Fridays, and weekends are completely focused on my family.  It is a rare event for me to run an errand with Chooch.  We go to classes together, or the library or park.  We play and read books, and I am genuinely grateful for the time I have with her.  I’m also grateful that I have the flexibility to keep her home from daycare if I need to do, and I can do so without stress or regret.

So that’s my decision.  For now.  What I have learned from it?  I’ve learned that the decision is different for every Mom and every family, and you need to make the choice that works for you.  I’ve learned that no matter what you choose, there are days when you feel like you made the right choice, and days when you are kicking yourself and desperately wishing you had taken Option B.  And the most important lesson of all – I’ve learned that if you get it wrong, you can always make a different decision.

Post script – After re-reading this post, the social worker in me feels compelled to acknowledge how privileged and fortunate I am to be able to struggle with this decision, and change my mind if I want or need to.  There are many, many women and families who either have to work, or don’t have the option.  As Thanksgiving approaches, I would like to add this struggle, as hard as it may feel at times, to the long list of things that I am grateful for.

*Thanks to Monsoon Mama for this excellent phrase.

The Chooch’s First Word

Choochie’s first birthday was two days ago, and I had a plan to write the big “We survived the First Year” post, complete with thoughtful, funny, and decidedly not-boring reflections on the past year and all the ways in which this lovely baby has changed my life.  I was going to tell you about how she has developed a personality, and preferences, interests, and even a few skills (not many, but a few).  But life is busy, and it got really busy this week with class and work and my Mom visiting for the Big Day, and planning for (and pulling off!) various celebratory activities, so the post never happened.

Fortunately, something more interesting did.  The Chooch said her first word.  (We think.)

Just to be clear, she’s been making noises and sounds for quite awhile now.  I think we’ve heard all the vowels and many consonants in a variety of combinations.  She’s even said “Dada” to Josh and “Mama”  to me and looked at her bottle and said “Baba”.  However, these words happen inconsistently, and she’s also Da’ed at the chair or a toy, or Ma’ed at the cat or her shoe, and so we didn’t count the few times that she got it right as words.  According to our rules, saying a word means saying the right word at the right object (and not other objects) on more than one occasion.  Not surprisingly, we thought for sure that her first word would be Dada or Mama.

Wrong.

Her first word was “Eeeee!”  Now, Eeeee! might not seem like a word, but you must consider that it was directed at EeBee.  EeBee was a birthday gift from some dear friends, and Choochie’s affection for this plush doll was quite a shock to Josh and me.  Chooch has expressed little or no interest in any stuffed animals or dolls until the arrival of EeBee.  I must confess that my initial reaction upon opening the package was, “Great.  Another toy that Choochie will completely ignore.  It has no zippers or buttons or snaps or straps, and it’s not even wearing shoes.”  (The Chooch’s interest in shoes is consistent and long-standing.)  The thing is, she loves it.  Really loves it.  She grabs it around the neck, squeezes it, and drags it around.  After Josh and I called it “EeBee” a few times, she began shrieking “Eeeeeee!”  (I think she even got the Beee in there a few times, but I might be wrong.)  If I asked her where EeBee was, she would crawl over to it, put it in a choke hold, and once again, “Eeeee!”

So, there you have it.  Two days after her first birthday, Choochie has her first word.  And EeBee, even though you are an “eccentric looking toy,”* Chooch loves you, so welcome to the family.**

* My mother’s description of EeBee.
** After months of trying to get Chooch attached to a small toy or blanket, it would be just my luck that she would choose a 17″ plush doll as her attachment object.  Great.  Well, it hasn’t happened yet, but I’ll keep you posted.

A long night

The Chooch woke up last night around midnight, and didn’t really fall back asleep until about 2 am.  This is completely unheard of for her, and as a result, Josh and I were totally unequipped to deal with the situation – which is why it took us two hours of trying various interventions (snuggling, rocking, shushing, changing her diaper, etc.,) before we got her back to sleep.

The night went something like this:  Choochie cries, one of us gets up and snuggles her back to sleep (or at least a relaxed state in which her eyes are closed, she is quiet, and we are led to believe she is asleep), Chooch goes back to the crib, parent sneaks back to bed, is questioned by other parent, status update is shared, and all is quiet.  For about five minutes.  Rinse.  Repeat.  For over an hour.  In the middle of the night.

Finally, around 1:30, I decided to make her a bottle.  This may seem like an obvious step to take, and you may be wondering why I didn’t try it earlier.  No, it’s not that I was worried about creating a little monster who wakes up in the middle of the night wanting to eat.  The reason I didn’t give her a bottle earlier was because I just didn’t think of it.  I’d like to blame my stupidity on the fact that it was the middle of the night and I was half asleep, but the truth is, that’s just how I am at times.  I’m the person who will wander around in a haze of snot and headache and coughing for hours before it ever occurs to me that I should take cold medicine (and even then it’s usually Josh who reminds me.)  Sometimes I just don’t think of things.

Anyhow, back to the kid.  I take her down to the kitchen, start making the bottle, and as I’m bouncing her on my hip while I shake the bottle, she makes the tiniest little burp, stops fussing, and looks up at me through her teary eyes with a smile.  I instantly remembered a story my mom told me about my younger sister as a baby.  Apparently she had been screaming for quite a while, and nothing my mom tried soothed her at all.  My mom finally called the doctor, who agreed that perhaps they should come into the office.  As my mom was strapping her into the car seat, blerp!  My little sister emitted the most pathetic little burp and immediately stopped crying.  As I stood in the kitchen last night, I kicked myself for not thinking of it sooner.  Obviously it was the burp.

I took Chooch and the bottle back up to her room, and she fell asleep in my arms, so I put her back into her crib and tip-toed back to bed.  “It was a burp.  A tiny little burp,” I proudly informed Josh.  I felt triumphant.  For about 90 seconds, until she started screaming again.  “It’s not the burp,” Josh grumbled at me as he stumbled back into her room.

Josh gave her the bottle, which she inhaled, but I could hear her fussing for several minutes.  Finally she was quiet, and Josh came back to the bedroom.  Minutes later she was crying again.

It was my turn again, so I went back and got her.  She was fussing and uncomfortable, and my attempts to snuggle her just seemed to make things worse until she was just flat-out crying, so I decided to try something different.  I turned on the small light on the bookcase and started reading her a book.  By page 2, she had stopped crying and was riveted by the blue blueberries and blue ball and orange fish and orange towel and red shoes and red apple.  We read the book twice.  Then she laid back into my arms, fell asleep, and stayed asleep.

I have no idea what was keeping her up.  Possible suspects include teething, gas, a foreshadow of the cold that came on in full force this afternoon, or some weird developmental thing keeping her up.  I also have no idea what ultimately put her to sleep.  Was it the book?  (I know I find that particular book incredibly boring after only one read – perhaps two readings were enough to get her back to sleep.)  The bottle?  The bottle and the book?  No idea.

Speaking of boring reads, you may wonder why I just wrote an entire blog post about the Chooch being up in the middle of the night.  Well, to be honest there’s not much more going on in my life right now, and besides, that’s what parenting is – trying to solve a problem when everyone involved is exhausted, coping and problem-solving skills are low, and communication skills are essentially non-existent.  You have little or no idea what the hell is going on, so you fumble around, try one thing after another, and eventually, if you’re lucky, you stumble onto something that works, and then you stumble back into bed.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Today is my Mom’s birthday, so I’m going to tell all you loyal readers a little bit about this amazing woman (who probably just read that first sentence and laughed out loud at someone describing her as “amazing”).  Now, there are lots of things I could tell you about her, like how she makes THE BEST PASTA EVER, and does all the voices when she reads stories out loud, and has read Dante’s Inferno in the old Italian (which is actually more freakish than it is cool, but I’ll leave it in nonetheless), and busts out with stories about hiding under a bed during the Six Day War (and yes, she was in Israel at the time) and sweet-talking Mexican banditos (yes, in Mexico), and how she kept chickens in her suburban yard long before it was cool, and how when my sister and I were younger she once let us draw all over her legs with magic markers (washable, of course) and we though it was the best thing ever, and… well… you get the point. She’s awesome.  But that’s not what I want to write about today.

What I really want to write about is how my Mom has been such an important, and wonderful part of my becoming a new mother.  Mommy (yes, I still call her Mommy) is absolutely devoted to her four children and three grandchildren, and the Chooch and I are no exception.  Which leads me to my first tangent.  Awhile ago, one of my commenters asked how Chooch got her nickname.  (I do hope you all realize that “Choochie” is not my daughter’s given name.  Yes? Good.)  Well, the name came from my Mom, who was holding a fussy 3 day old baby, and as she was shushing her to sleep (as only she could do in those early days), she started calling her “Choo Choo Bella”.  The nickname stuck and has become a huge part of the lexicon in our house.  She’s the Chooch, Choochie, Chooch-a-Pooch, Choochie-Pot, Choocharina, Choocharella, and on very special occasions, Choo Choo Bellarina.  (We even have a little song based on the name, and no, we will never sing it for you, so don’t even ask.)  My mom has given just such fabulous nicknames to all of her children and pets, but if I share my sibling’s monikers with you here, they will likely never speak to me again.  And that would make me sad.

Back to the point.  My mother spent just about a month with us when the Chooch was born.  She did all of the stuff one would hope a grandmother would do when her daughter becomes a new mother – she cleaned, she cooked (oh man, did she cook), she ran errands, she held the baby while I showered, she scolded me if I was holding the baby too long and not sharing her, and most importantly, she watched (and enjoyed and discussed) endless episodes of NCIS with me.  Fine fine.  None of that is terribly interesting.  What is most interesting is what she didn’t do.

She didn’t give me any advice.

Close your gaping mouth, clean up your spilled coffee, and read it again, because it’s true.  My mother came over to help after my daughter was born, and I can honestly say I don’t think she gave me any advice.  (Ok, she did say things like, “Don’t worry, you’ll figure it out” and “Well, if you’re really worried, call the doctor”.  You might call that advice.  I don’t.)  Now, it’s not because my mother doesn’t have advice to give.  She has years of experience with babies, and LOTS of opinions*, but somehow (and I have no idea how, as I have not yet mastered this skill, although I am trying) she managed not to share any of them with me, unless I asked.  If I asked, she offered her thoughts.  If I didn’t, she went off to find another Diet Coke.  Seems reasonable to me.

The advice my mother didn’t give me really set the stage for my experience of myself as a mother – it gave me the confidence I needed as I fumbled around in a haze of new mom fatigue.  The underlying message my Mom was sending me every time she kept her mouth shut was “I trust you. You can do this.”  More than anything else, that’s what I needed.  Even now, almost a year later, I know that even if I don’t know the answer to a particular parenting question (When do I start weaning the baby off her beloved bottle? When do we switch her from family day care to a proper pre-school?  What kind of warm winter coat is best?  How do I get the kid to keep mittens on?), I will figure it out, and we will both survive just fine.  It’s an amazing gift, and one that I will be grateful for for the rest of my life.

So, thanks, Mommy.  Happy Birthday, and I love you.  The Chooch and I can’t wait to see you next week!

* My Mom has given me approximately three pieces of unsolicited advice in my life.  I think they’re all fairly reasonable.
1) Don’t layer your hair.  (Keep in mind this gem came out in the 80’s, the high point of terrible layered haircuts, and long before Jennifer Aniston’s long luscious layers.)
2) Never eat in restaurants that don’t have any windows.
3) You can judge a town by the quality of its bookstores.

Halloween Hell

Ok, so here’s the deal.  I really don’t like Halloween. I mean, I REALLY don’t like Halloween.  When I was a child, I always wanted to dress up as a cat because it was a relatively simple costume – ears, tail, a little face paint, and a leotard and black tights when I was little, t-shirt and sweats as I got older and more self-conscious about my body.  I never really enjoyed trick or treating much, perhaps because my mother would open up each and every piece of candy, including those that were still in their individual wrapping, to check for razors.  Talk about Halloween kill-joys.  Once I got to high school and realized that I could buy candy whenever I wanted without dressing up like an idiot and begging for candy door to door, I promptly stopped observing Halloween in any way.

Flash forward a couple of decades, and I’ve got a baby.  She was about a week old at Halloween last year, so I played the “I just pushed an 8 lb 10 oz screaming poo factory out of my hoo-ha” card and nixed Halloween all together.  (Josh and I enjoyed one last year of our annual Halloween ritual – lock the door, drop the shutters, turn out the lights, and ignore the doorbell.)  But this year we have Mommy-friends and Daddy-friends and baby-friends and neighbor-friends and toddler-friends and I feel some sort of indescribable Mombligation to dress the kid up and take her into town for a little trick or treating, which of course, she will be completely oblivious to, but I will feel compelled to suffer through nonetheless.

So, being the mediocre Mom that I am, I schlepped my daughter to the Generic Big Box Store to buy a Cheap Ass Costume.  (You didn’t really think I was going to make one, did you?  Please.)  Good g-d.  It was worse than I, in all of my Halloween-hating fantasies, could possibly imagine.  After several trips up and down the aisle, sorting through the messy, disorganized racks once and then again, I came to the conclusion that the costume options for  my 12 month old daughter consisted of a slutty ladybug, a homeless muppet, or a doctor.

The doctor probably seems fairly innocuous, right?  Dress the kid in a pair of tiny scrubs, hang a mini stethoscope around her neck, hope she doesn’t choke herself on it, and you’re on your way!  Here’s the thing, people.  I’m Jewish.  And a mother.  Let me put that together for you – I’m a Jewish mother.  I know, I’m a cliche in many many ways, but this is too much even for me.*

Up next – the homeless muppet.  No, the little costume didn’t come complete with a cardboard sign and crumpled paper bag to hide one’s bottle in, but it was close.  There were a number of one-piece fuzzy monkey and duck and bear costumes, but they all looked so damn dingy and ratty that all I could imagine was a down-on-his-luck Fozzie, passed out in the stairwell to a basement apartment, dirty syringes laying on the ground nearby.  I just couldn’t do it.  Not even for a meager $13.

Finally, the slutty ladybug.  There were a number of costumes in this particular genre, including the butterfly, princess, angel and fairy.  They consisted of v-neck leotards with little tutus and a few accessories (wings, halos, tiaras, etc.).  The thing is, all of the little girls on the cover of the packages were dressed like they were ready for an episode of Toddlers & Tiaras.  Their hair was done up, they were all wearing makeup, and the looked ridiculous.  Here I am, imagining a pudgy little ladybug with bouncy antennas (they would last about 30 seconds on her little head, but a Mom can hope, right?), and instead I get a baby beauty queen.  Again, didn’t really work for me.

Chooch and I left Generic Big Box Store without a costume.  I briefly contemplated making her one, had a good laugh about that, and decided to discuss the matter with Josh.  Being the maven that he is, he found her a very sweet little outfit online in about six minutes.  And no, I’m not going to tell you what it is.  You’ll have to wait and see.

* In case you haven’t heard this one:  A strained voice calls out through a darkened theater, “Please, please, is there a doctor in the house?” The lights come on and several men stand up. A middle-aged lady walks forward, pulling her daughter with her, “Thank heavens! Are any of you single and interested in a date with a good, Jewish girl?”

An update (because my brain is too tired to come up with a better title)

It’s been just over two weeks since my last post, and that’s just too long.  Several factors have contributed my lack of blogging, including (and in no particular order): high holidays, the ramping up of school and work, and the Chooch being sick and unable to go to daycare, thus leaving me with even less time to accomplish non-baby-related tasks.  During the past two weeks I’ve had a couple of vague ideas for posts, but I generally prefer to wait until the post is mostly formed before I throw it up on the internet.  Not this time, though, baby.  This time you’re getting my… well… verbal diarrhea.  Ahem.

So, here’s the deal.  (My apologies to those of you who have heard this from me in the past couple of weeks.)

I’m freaking out.

Let me preface my explanation of the freak-out with what I like to refer to the grandparent clause.  (When I leave it out, I inevitably get worried e-mails from my grandparents.)  I’m fine.  The family is fine.  Everyone is healthy.  I’ve just gotten in over my head with my professional and academic commitments. Currently, Choochie is in daycare from 8 am – 3:30 pm three days per week, and I spend the majority of one of those days in class.  Thus, I have about 15 hours each week to meet, talk to, or e-mail with any number of my 15 advisees, do my reading and course work for the policy course I am taking, work on my comprehensive paper, put together a presentation, run errands, clean the house, and manage family things like paying bills, managing social plans, etc.

It’s just not enough time.  So I end up working in the evening, on Sundays, straight through naptime (when she actually naps), and I still feel completely behind.  I haven’t even touched comps, and I really need to get going on that.  Same with the presentation.  At this rate, I’m just keeping up with coursework, my advisees, and most of the housework and family stuff.  Which is good, but not good enough.  Not only am I am not addressing some major projects that have serious implications for my professional career, but two other parts of my life are being completely neglected:  1)  Jewish observance and awareness.  In past years, I have really gotten into the experience of the High Holidays, and loved it.  This year I was sick and feeling overwhelmed, and it was all I could do to try to stay focused on enjoying the family time and not stress about the days of work I was missing.  This is not the holiday experience I want to have in the future, nor is it the message I want to give to my daughter about the role of Judaism in our lives.  2)  My exercise and stare-at-the-wall time.  I function much better when I have time to exercise and time to sit and space and do nothing.  I just haven’t been getting the quality couch time I need, and I’m getting concerned about it.  Seriously.

A few points to make before we continue:  1) Make no mistake about it.  Josh is extremely helpful and supportive, primarily in the form of cooking the vast majority of the meals, but with errands and other tasks as well.  However, I still feel the primary burden for a number of things – a burden which is entirely self-imposed because I am not officially working in an office.  Thus, I feel like because I have the flexibility to go out and run errands (or whatever), I should.  I kind of need to get over it, but I haven’t yet.  2) If I sound like I’m whining a bit, well, it’s because I am.  I have moments where I feel empowered and able to deal with all of this, and then I have other moments where I think about everything that needs to get done before next spring, and all I can think is “I’m screwed”.  Then I have a little bit of a pity party, and lucky you, you’re here to read about it.

Ok, on to the good news.  1)  I enjoy everything I’m doing.  I love the days when Choochie isn’t in daycare, and she and I get to hang out all day.  I don’t know that I would be so happy to be a full time SAHM, but I really enjoy the days when I’m with her.  Also, I like the academic advising I’m doing, and I like being in class.  It keeps my brain going, and I really care about social work.  And, if I stick with it, one of these days (not any time soon, mind you), you’ll all have to refer to me as Doctor.  So I got that going for me, which is nice.  2)  I have options.  I could put the Chooch in daycare four days a week.  I’ve spoken with our daycare provider, who I adore, and she has an opening.  Choochie is quite happy at daycare, and I trust them completely, but I’m not sure I’m ready to be away from her for most of four days each week.  Yet I’m considering doing it just for the fall and early winter, which might allow me to get a big chunk of work done and put me in a better position for the spring.

Ok, when I said that I have options, that’s pretty much my only one.  I can either increase daycare or not.  I don’t feel like I can quit or take a hiatus from either of my advising jobs because that would leave my supervisors with advisor-less advisees, which isn’t fair to them.  Also, I really like the schools and departments I work for, and I want to maintain good relationships with both of them.

So, I’m learning my lesson.  My daughter and family definitely come first, and if I had my druthers, I wouldn’t have taken on quite so much.  I know they say that working mothers can have it all, and do it all.  And we can.  Just not all at once.  Until I sort out this particular conundrum (which may not happen until next spring), I’ll keep posting as much as I can, but I apologize in advance if it’s much less often than it used to be.  Thanks for sticking with me.

The Challenge of the Work/Life Balance

Here’s the thing.  I’ll have ideas for posts throughout the day, but by the time I finally get a free minute to sit down and right, my brain is mush.  After the big naptime take down, I plop myself on the couch, turn on the tv, surf the channels, remember that daytime tv sucks, turn off the tv, turn on NPR, and proceed to space out.  I try to type, but nothing happens.  So I check Facebook.  And Twitter.  And my Blogs.  I put down the computer and pick up a few articles that I’ve printed out and stare at them blankly.  I put them down and pick up the computer again.  And so it goes.

Really what I should do is nap while the baby naps, but I always have these big plans.  I’m home with the Chooch on Mondays and Fridays and Wednesday afternoons, and I start the day with a schedule in my mind.  It generally involves cleaning while she plays, eating while she eats, going to the playgroup or playdate du jour, and studying or writing while she sleeps.  This excellent plan lasts until about 8:30 am.  9 on a good day.  ‘Cuz that’s how babies roll.

Generally speaking, I’ve learned to go with the flow.  Naptime’s off by an hour, and we’re missing the playgroup?  Ok, we’ll go for a walk instead.  Chooch didn’t feel like playing by herself while I cleaned?  Ok, the dishes will stay in the sink for a few more hours.  Stuff like that.  Some days are good ones, and I feel like a normal person with a reasonable amount of energy at the end of the day.  Today I laid on the couch downstairs clicking randomly on my Blackberry for 20 minutes while Josh made dinner.  (I found this guy on Twitter, so it wasn’t a total waste.)  Chooch’s bedtime was rough, and I had to recover.

Why am I telling you all this?  Well, after my last post, I got some feedback from friends and readers that one of the hardest aspects of the Bad Mother phenomenon has to do with whether or not Mom works outside the home.  Stay at home Moms (SAHMs) are often grateful for the flexibility, ability to wear jeans and yoga pants, and of course, the good time spent with their children.  Those who work outside the house may so because of financial reasons, career aspirations, or the knowledge that they will go completely batshit crazy if they have to read Gossie and Gertie one more time.  (Not that I would know anything about that.  Ahem.)

But there are drawbacks.  Major ones.  Staying at home with one’s kids can be boring, lonely, mind-numbing, and just plain hard.  There are few things more exhausting than putting a fussy baby who is cutting a tooth and doesn’t want to sleep down for a nap.  Changing poopy diapers is just plain disgusting any way you wipe it.  There’s no intellectual stimulation, no water cooler conversation, no camaraderie with colleagues.  But working outside the house has its challenges too.  Working mothers feel the guilt of leaving their children in daycare or with a nanny.  They have to balance work and home life, and don’t have the same flexibility when the daycare calls with the F-word (fever, of course).  And they may miss those “milestone moments” of baby’s first step, first word, first nap without a raging fit beforehand.  To top it all off, they feel judged by the SAHM’s.

Mothers are noble beings in many ways.  We sit in intense discomfort, holding our pee because there is no way in hell we’re getting up off the couch before this baby falls asleep.  We wait to eat until the baby is fed.  We snuggle a hot sweaty baby on the warmest of days when the last thing we want to do is hold a human heater.  We get up in the middle of the night to feed or change or comfort our little ones.  Yeah yeah, we’re the greatest, blah blah blah.  But we’re also women, and perhaps the experience of becoming mothers makes us regress a little bit, or maybe it’s the fatigue and lingering hormonal rages.  Or maybe we were that way all along.  Whatever the reason, we become judgmental and bitchy at times.   Not surprisingly, one of the many ways we judge each other for being bad mothers has to do with this work/home balance.  It doesn’t matter which side of the line you land, there is something lesser about the Other Mother.  This one’s neglecting her kids in favor of her career.  That one is perpetuating stereotypes and setting back the hard work of all those feminists.

In many ways, I’m lucky.  I have a relatively easy baby (sleeps well, eats well, generally happy), and Josh and I have the luxury to allow me to work/school part time.  I get to spend time during the week with Chooch, but I also get time to work and study, which keeps me sane and feeling like my professional life isn’t completely stalled out.  Although working part-time is the best option for me, it’s not easy, and I have seen both sides of the coin.  I’m so happy to be with my daughter on the days we’re together, and I really enjoy watching her interact with other babies and children at playgroups and Mommy-daughter classes.  (Yes, I caved and signed up for one.  I feel like a sucker, but I’m enjoying it nonetheless.)  But those days with her can be exhausting, as I have described above.  I feel drained and frustrated at the end of the day.  And I’ll admit it, I enjoy the peace and quiet of my work days, the time to read and write, and meet with students.  But I miss her, and I still feel guilty for being away from her.

And so it goes.  Life is hard.  No option is perfect, and so we each make the best choice we can, given our circumstances and limitations.  One would only hope that we could all remember that we are all the mother who wants to be home, the mother who wants to work, the mother who judges other mothers, and the mother who doesn’t want (or deserve) to be judged.  Maybe then we wouldn’t spend so much time wondering if we were Bad Mothers or not.

My Only Piece of Parenting Advice

My loyal readers know by now that I have spent the last few months of motherhood eating more than my fair share of humble pie (well, that might be a bit dramatic, but it sounds good, right?).  Before Choochie was born, I judged other mothers for their parenting errors and ineptitudes.  They were neurotic, stroller-obsessed freaks, and I was never going to be like that.

Ha.

As we’ve tackled each new challenge of baby-raising, we’ve struggled to find the “best way” to approach the situation.  Why aren’t I making more milk, and why is she still hungry after nursing?  How do we get her to sleep through the night?  What is the best way to get her to actually eat solids?  Is there something I can do to help improve her gross motor skills?  (Yes, I’m a freak like that.  You should know that by now.)  As we faced each developmental milestone, I would talk to other mothers about their experience, and they would gladly share their advice.  Sometimes it worked for us, and sometimes it didn’t.  We made it through each stumbling block one way or another, and we’ll keep chugging along, some days more gracefully than others.

Which brings me to my latest Mommy Revelation.  Actually, there are two.  First, the more experience I have as a mother, the more I realize that I don’t know shit.  But in a good way.  Let me explain.  The reality of not knowing, of being right in the middle of confusion and frustration, actually kind of sucks.  I feel powerless and stupid, as though I should instantly know how to help Choochie sleep or eat or feel better or whatever, even though we are both facing a new situation for the first time.  But when I can step back from the suckiness, and take a broader view of the situation, not knowing is pretty cool.  It means I don’t have to get it right every time, and that I can experiment and be creative when I’m trying to figure out what to do next.  It’s not always easy to keep that in mind, but when I do, it’s pretty cool.

Realizing how much I don’t know brings me to my second Mommy Revelation.  Given that I don’t know shit, and that every time I judge another mother (which is happening less and less these days, but yes, I must confess, it still happens from time to time), I end up finding myself in the same situation two days later, I have come to realize that I have essentially no advice for other mothers.  I can reassure them that it is normal to feel crazy and stupid and so desperately in love with this little bundle of poop and insanity that you might actually make it through the day, but I can’t tell them which diapers to pick or how long to nurse for or whether or not to let the baby cry it out or which sling to use.  Every baby is different, and every Mommy is different, and how could I possibly know, even on my best day, what is going to work for you?

(And that, my dear readers, is why I will never write a best-selling book on baby raising.  Who’s going to pay $12.95 to have someone tell them that they’ll figure it out?)

Now, having said all of that, I will now contradict myself.  There is one piece of advice I will give to new parents.  You need to watch your baby.  A lot.  And carefully.  And a lot.  And really watch – not just stare in their general direction while your ears are listening to Law & Order in the background and your mind is wondering if you’re ever going to fit into those jeans again.  It’s not as easy, or as obvious, as it seems.  The thing is, we all assume we need to watch our babies to keep them safe, and this is certainly true.  But until your babies have words (and even then), they communicate and develop and change in the most subtle of ways, and if you aren’t watching, you’re going to miss it.  The Chooch has generally made it fairly easy for us to figure out what is going on – she rubs viciously at her eyes when she’s tired, fusses when she’s hungry, and squeaks like a dolphin when she’s excited.  But even these signs, which have been there for months, are changing, and I’m still trying to catch up.  And so I watch.

And watch some more.

And try something.  And when it doesn’t work, I try something else.  And then I watch again.  And eventually I figure it out.  Until it all changes again.

Maybe that’s why motherhood can feel so damn hard.  Watching this intensely is exhausting.  We spend so much of our lives on auto-pilot, moving through the familiar with such a small fraction of our brain working.  When you are taking care of a baby, you’re on high alert all the time, even when safety isn’t an immediate issue.  You’re constantly watching and learning and putting the pieces together and trying to figure it out.  Just like the baby, I guess.  Except you aren’t pooping your pants (hopefully).

So, go ahead.  Ask me any question you’d like, and I’ll be happy to tell you what worked for us.  But I’ll also tell you that I have no idea what will work for you, and you need to figure out what makes the most sense you, your partner, and your baby.  You can ask your partner what he or she thinks, but as for the baby – well, I guess you’re just going to have to watch and find out.

The Worried Mommy

I recently sent my family members an update on the Chooch, and I got the following response from my grandfather (Yes, he’s online.  He’s also on Facebook.  He’s your basic nonagenarian technological badass):

“Thanks for the good news about my great-granddaughter.  I am more concerned about my granddaughter (you).  Your blogs et al have been indicating: worry, worry worry.”

I have to admit I was surprised by his e-mail, not because he’s wrong about the worry worry worry, but because I thought I had done a pretty good job of keeping it to myself.  Apparently not.  Seeing as how I can’t hide it, I might as well just lay it out there, for all to read.

Some women worry about post-partum depression.  I didn’t – I’m not the depressive type.  I was more concerned about post-partum anxiety.  I get anxious.  Big time.  When I was pregnant, I had all the normal pregnant-woman worries -  Is the baby alive?  Is it growing well?  What if it’s born with a fifth limb growing out of its neck?  Dare I admit to my readers that I had to google the difference between its and it’s in order to write that sentence?

In addition to those constant worries, I also had stress related to the fact that we had done IVF, specifically about the very distinct possibility that they might have implanted the wrong embryo.  In the best of all worlds, Josh and I would end up with an African-American baby, or an Asian or Latino baby, and we wouldn’t care about the mix-up because it would still be our baby, and we would sue the lab and get our child’s college tuition and I would buy all sorts of multicultural children’s books and brown baby dolls and it would be no problem at all.  That didn’t stress me out.  What had me up at night (in addition to my giant belly and tiny bladder) was the possibility that we would end up with a white baby with dark hair and brown eyes (Josh and I both have light brown hair and blue eyes) who could have been ours, but didn’t look like either of us and people would look and her and look at us and look and her and then turn to each other and murmur in a low voice, “That’s funny.  She doesn’t really look like either of them…”

And then Choochie actually was born with a head of very dark hair, and I knew it was true.

Of course, now that her dark hair has grown in blonde, and she has Josh’s blue eyes and my dark circles under those beautiful eyes (sorry!) and Josh’s ADD and my temperament (totally bitchy when hungry or tired but generally fairly happy otherwise), I know she’s ours.

Which frees me up to worry about everything else:  Why does she sleep so much?  Am I feeding her the right foods?  Do I really need to use one of those corny shopping cart covers?  What if I fall down the stairs when I am carrying her?  Will this kid ever learn to use a sippy cup?  What is this Fifth’s Disease again, does she have it, and are you really sure it won’t kill, maim, or permanently disfigure her?  Where are we going to send her to preschool?  What if she’s the only kid in her kindergarten class who isn’t crawling?  Or walking?  Or drinking out of a cup?  And of course, the perennial worry:  Is she still breathing??  (You’d think I’d be over that by now, right?  I mean, it has been nine months and she’s still breathing.  Well, I’m not over it, and I don’t plan to be any time soon.  I’m hoping that by the time she goes off to college they will have invented a remote breath-monitor.  Good for measuring BAC as well as general breathing activities.)

So, yes, I’m a worry freak.  The thing is, I always have been.  Choochie just happens to be the current hook on which I hang my worry hat.  And I’m ok with that.  I work hard to be aware of my worry, and not let it dictate my behavior (other than the night-time check-ins, but she’s asleep, so what the hell does she know?).  I let her put toys in her mouth that have been on the floor.  I’m not terribly anal about what I feed her.  I let the lady at the post office hold her so I could tape up a package.  Sometimes I *gasp* let her cry in her crib for awhile before I drag my butt out of bed to get her.  Hell, she’s been in there for 12 hours, what’s a few more minutes?

One of the greatest compliments Josh and I ever received was from a colleague of his who noted that we seem like second time parents.  What he didn’t know is that we work hard at it.  At least I do.  You have no idea how tempted I am to put this kid in a helmet and wrap her in bubble wrap.  But I don’t.  And now she has a decent bruise on her forehead from falling into the coffee table.  Nice.

Lest you think I’m over-compensating, I’m not.  I have more than enough worry to compensate for any attempts I might make to over-compensate.  She hasn’t had strawberries or honey or peanuts yet.  I buy organic baby food and BPA-free bottles.  I put so much sunscreen on the kid that she looks like an albino when we go out.  And I don’t let her watch NCIS anymore, as much as I want to.

So, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it, whether I like it or not.  Now I’m going to go stress out about why she doesn’t know how to wave yet.

Checking on Choochie

Young girls are problematic, teenage girls even more so.  I know because I was one myself.  Throughout my adolescent years I was easily vexed (can you tell I just finished reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies?), quick to share my annoyance, and fairly unhelpful around the house.  I remember getting in fights with my younger brother and sister, who were toddlers at the time, and quite honestly not understanding why my mother would side with them.  Even if I was more than a decade older than them, even if I was learning to drive when they were just learning to toilet themselves, why did she expect so much of me?  My frustration with my siblings would quickly be transferred to my mother; I was frequently angry at her for having the audacity to give me a curfew; she would get annoyed at me for conveniently having to use the restroom right when it was time to clear the table.  We bickered a lot.

My mother (whom I now call every day) recently told me that one day when she was doing my laundry, she found a note in the pocket of my jeans, written in my handwriting, which said, “Don’t worry.  My mother doesn’t know shit.”  I have no recollection of writing that note, and I honestly can’t remember doing anything warranting such a missive.  My teenage rebellion was generally mild, other than ditching so many classes that I was declared a truant by the state of California.  The state’s attempts to scare me into attending those boring classes backfired; I had no idea that one could still be considered a “truant”, and my reaction to the official letter from the school board was one of overwhelming pride.  Other than that, though, I was generally a good girl.  Nonetheless, I still frequently found my parents to be a source of embarrassment and irritation, and I rarely, if ever, thought of their perspective.

That perspective, being, of course, how much they loved me.  (Yes, I also made them insane, but we’re not going to focus on such trivial details at this point.)  Those of you who know me know that my childhood was a rocky one, but the one fact of which I was never in doubt was how much my parents loved me.  Not unlike so many things which we take for granted, however, I didn’t often consider their love when I tried to understand (or not) their reactions to me or decisions about my upbringing.  I was a teenager, so my primary reaction to them was generally not as positive as it could have been.

Now, as a mother, I am experiencing the other side of the picture.  I trust that Josh and I will do our best to teach our daughter good judgment and discernment, empathy and kindness, and how to make decisions such that one doesn’t end up right smack dab in the middle of the a major clusterfuck.  Having said that, I can already see that Choochie has inherited certain traits from both her father and me that could make her adolescent years more challenging than any of us would like.  At only 9 months, she is independent and opinionated, active and curious, and a seriously smooth talker.  (Ok, she’s actually a terrible talker – all we get is DaDaDaDaDa and a variety of screeches and squeals, but she can charm an elevator full of busy professionals before we reach the third floor.)  At first glance, these qualities may seem great, but they are a dangerous combination.  If she’s anything like her father and me, she’s going to sweet talk us into believing that she would never take that golf cart out onto the ninth hole in the middle of the night or walk across the Golden Gate Bridge at 2 in the morning or ditch class to go play in the fields of the nunnery across the street or go rollerblading through the halls of the local university until security has to chase her off campus.  And we’ll be suspicious, but she’ll come home with a good report card and her friends will seem lovely, and what can we do?  We’ll do what parents do – we’ll give her a curfew and set limits when we can and try our damnedest  to catch her in the act if for no other reason than our own amusement.  And she’ll feel annoyed and angry and confused and perhaps she’ll even write some bad poetry about it.  But hopefully she’ll never doubt how much we love her.

Which brings me to the point of all of us.  I hope one day Choochie will read this blog, and learn about a side of me that she might not otherwise see.  She’ll learn about the early months of her life, and what a crazy, wonderful, confusing, maddening, lovely experience it was for me.  But most of all, I hope she is reminded of how much I love her.  How much we both, Josh and I, love her.  Perhaps by the time she reads this I may have forgotten to tell her that every night, when we are ready to go to sleep, hours after we have put her down for the night, we go into her room to check on her.  We check the temperature to make sure it’s not too hot or cold, Josh adjusts the fan, and I stand by her crib and stare for a minute, and then a minute longer.  We’ve been doing this since the first night we put her to sleep in her own room, when she was five weeks old.  This habit was initially fueled by my fear of SIDS, but now it’s mostly because after not seeing her for three hours, I actually kind of miss her.

So, Choochie, if you’re 16 years old and reading this, and you’re feeling angry at the world, and perhaps mostly me, know that I torment you because I love you.  You don’t remember me checking on you at night, and you’d likely be horrified if I did it now, but know that I could if I would.  Because I love you.  And because I’m a neurotic freak like that.