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.

An Important Milestone

I haven’t posted in over a week, and it’s not for lack of milestones.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  The Chooch has hit a number of them in the past few days.  She’s become a super crawler, she’s pulling herself to standing, her third tooth has put in an appearance, and the fourth isn’t far behind.  (All of these teeth popping through have led to a serious dearth of naps, which sucks, but we don’t dwell on that.)  Oh, and she’s clapping.  What is it about a baby clapping that is just the cutest thing on the entire planet?  Seriously.  Choochie is freakishly cute as it is, but when she turns to me and smiles and smarts clapping, I pretty much wet myself.  Anyway, she’s clapping, I’m peeing, but I haven’t been writing.  Given all of the big changes that I have been going on for the little one, you’d think I would have been writing up a storm.  The thing is, milestones are interesting for the parents of the child achieving them, but unless your child is shocking early or late or achieves them in some bizarre manner, they just don’t make for good writing.  I mean, seriously, do you really care that I go incontinent when I see my daughter clapping?  No, of course you don’t, but I feel a need to hyperbolize (is that even a word?) my experience just so you’ll find it interesting.  Not that I’ve done that anywhere else on this blog.  Oh noooo.

But there is one milestone that passed this past week that is so significant in my life that I feel compelled to write about it, regardless of whether or not you find it even slightly interesting.  This was one of the few developments that was actually captured on film, and while she won’t remember it in future years, I definitely will.

Choochie had her first trip to the stationary supply store.

I know, I know.  You’re all scratching your heads, staring into your coffee cup and wishing it would magically fill itself again, pulling at your hangnails, and finding your mouse wandering over to people.com.  (Don’t lie.  We all do it.)  What the hell am I talking about, and why do you care?  Here’s the thing.  I love school supplies, and the stores that sell them.  My favorite office supply stores are the old-school Mom and Pop shops filled with pens, markers, notebooks, folders, binders, clips, and nary a computer, printer, or over-eager sales person in an offensively bright red shirt to be found.  Like so many of their type, those shops are few and far between these days, having morphed into card and gift shops that carry a limited selection of office supplies, or they have gone out of business entirely in the shadow of the big box office supply stores.  I am ashamed to admit that I followed the paper and pens rather than remaining loyal – there is a big chain store not far from my house, and I’ve been there many, many times.

My affection for all things writing, folding, filing, tabbing, and highlighting is long-standing.  When I was growing up, my sister and I would get excited for the big Back to School Shopping Trip each fall.  For her, this meant new clothes and shoes, while all I could think about were the Back to School Kits that came complete with matching pens, pencils, erasers, compasses, protractors, rulers, scissors, tape dispensers, staplers, and staple removers.  Never mind that I was in 4th grade and had absolutely no use for any of it except the pencils and erasers – They Matched!  And they came in such a beautiful little color-coordinated pouch that would clip right into my Trapper Keeper.  What could possibly be better?  (My sister would probably argue that a new fall wardrobe is better, which is why she went to school looking gorgeous in pressed pants and silk blouses, while I shlubbed around in Umbros and t-shirts from my best friend’s Dad’s construction company.  But at least I could remove staples with ease and style!)

As I moved from pencils to pens, a whole new world opened up to me.  Ball point, roller balls, gel pens, retractables, fountain points – I firmly believe there is a place and a paper for each one, and I love them all for who they are and the ways in which they write differently on different papers.  (Although I must say I don’t love gel pens, except the Pilot G2, .05 point – a new American classic, really.  See what I mean?  I’m a freak.)  My love of all things stationary became legendary (I use that word loosely) in my family.  My mother has facilitated countless trips to the stationary store over the years, my father gave me a gorgeous fountain pen when I got my MSW, and I am proud to say that friends and family have been known to consult me about various pen and notebook options on more than occasion.

So now you know the what, but perhaps you’re still wondering about the why (if you’re even still reading, in which case you’ve probably got bigger issues than wondering about my bizarre obsession with office supplies).  As you have may have figured out by now, I’m a bit of a neurotic control freak, and having just the right notebook in which to take notes, and the right planner with which to manage my time and task list, and the the right files in which to store everything gives me a sense of mastery and peace, regardless of how illusory it may be.  I find office supply stores to be quite relaxing, and when I’m really stressed, there is nothing like wandering the aisles, contemplating all the glorious ways in which I can organize, compartmentalize,  label, file, store, retrieve, and manage all of my worries.  You should know that I come by this honestly, mind you – my father bought me my first Day-Timer when I was in 5th grade, a large beautiful faux leather binder complete with monthly and daily planner sheets, dedicated task lists, and lined sheets for notes.  Never mind that I didn’t have a damn thing to write in it, I carried it around with such pride.  (Now I realize how ridiculous that was.  I mean, honestly, Day-Timer is so 1990’s.  Quo Vadis are the planners of the new millenium, in my opinion.)

Perhaps now you understand why Choochie’s first trip to the stationary store was a big deal.  There aren’t that many things I hold sacred in this world, and even fewer that I can really share with the Chooch at this point in time.  (No matter how much I try to justify watching Law & Order or NCIS with her, I just can’t, and even though MacGyver would definitely be appropriate in a number of ways, we’re just not there yet.)  Introducing her to the world of pens and planners at a a tender young age is something I can share with her, even if she doesn’t fully appreciate it yet.  But she will learn.  Oh yes, she will learn.

Politics, identity, and raising a Jew Baby

I don’t usually get into political issues, but this time something in the news is directly related to how I think, and a parenting issue I have been struggling with.

The arrest of Harvard Professor Henry Louis Gates, Jr. has been all over the local news here in Massachusetts. My NPR affiliate posted a Facebook link to the latest update – that all charges have been dropped – and a few people responded by saying that the situation was blown out of proportion, that Prof. Gates over-reacted, that he should be grateful for the neighbor who was watching out for his home, essentially that Gates should just “get over it”.

On the one hand, I see their point, and in a different world, I might also be wondering why we all can’t just get along. But this isn’t a perfect world, and whether or not I agree with Prof. Gates’ reaction, I understand it, and I don’t fault him for it. Remember my post after the Holocaust Museum shooting? Now, the situation isn’t a perfect analogy, because I was responding to an intentional attack against an institution directly related to the persecution of my people and culture, but the underlying idea behind my reaction was the same. The news of the shooting brought my minority status to the forefront of my mind, and I reacted to the woman behind the counter as a Jew, not as your average White American, which is who she undoubtedly thought I was. Not only is Prof. Gates an African-American man who will never be mistaken for an average White American, but he has also made a life’s work of exploring and understanding the experience of Africans and African-Americans. He wasn’t responding to the police as a generic American, or as a respected and accomplished Harvard Professor. He was responding as a black man who spends a lot of time thinking about the experiences of black men, and I would guess that he was also scared. Having the police show up on your door step and ask you to step outside of your house is scary for anyone, but especially for a black man in the United States. Even in the Republic of Cambridge.

The point of all of this, as I said before, is that whether or not I agree with his reaction, I certainly understand it, and I can’t say that I would respond differently. Either way, I hope the world would not judge me based on my behavior when I feel scared or threatened.

The arrest of Prof. Gates got me thinking about an issue that has been rattling around in my brain for awhile now. Just as Gates undoubtedly sees the world as a black man (and an American, and a scholar, and a professor, etc.), I see the world from the perspective of a mother, a woman, a Jew, and a social worker, among other things. Jew and social worker – that can be a dangerous combination. Let’s start with the social worker part – I can’t tell you how many perfectly good books, tv shows, movies, and country songs (yes, I believe there are perfectly good country songs) have been ruined by my professional training and experience. I read child developmental books and websites that refer to Mommies and Daddies and I think about gay and lesbian couples, single parents and grandparents. Napoleon Dynamite killed me – I spent the whole movie wondering why there wasn’t a social worker visiting the home. Every time I hear the song “All Because Two People Fell in Love” by Brad Paisley (a country song about how the world is made a better place by the achievements of children who were born because two people fell in love), all I can think about is how many children are born to loveless pairings, arranged marriages, or are the products of rape or sexual assault. And House episodes – don’t get me started. I love the show (What health professional doesn’t? What more could we want than to be so good at our job that we can tell our patients exactly what we think of them, all while saving their lives?), but I don’t care if it is Lupus or MS or Wilson’s Disease, why are those family members sitting alone in the hallway while Dr. House and his team are temporarily killing their loved one for exactly 33 seconds in order to save him?? Where is the damned social worker? It’s a blessing and a curse, but mostly a curse, and one I can’t turn off. Fortunately, I have learned to generally keep my mouth shut, as I don’t need to further confirm people’s already lingering suspicions that I am a freak.

And then there is the Jew in me. Just the other day I was in a music class with Choochie, and the leader of the group read a book about Grandma going to the store for cheese and black forest ham. Eeek! Off goes the Jew-alert! No, I wasn’t offended (Don’t get me wrong – bacon is DELICIOUS. I just don’t eat it.), but I was aware. All of a sudden I was re-reading the other Moms’ nametags, trying to figure out who else was Jewish – a task made decidedly more difficult without last names. Sarah? Could be. Roxanne? Likely not. Miriam? Almost definitely. Then I’m thinking about how nice it would be if there was a children’s book about grandma going to the store for brisket and bagels or cheese and lactaid. And yes, there are plenty of Jewishly-themed children’s books about Shabbat or Chanukah or Pesach, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’d like to see a general children’s book that isn’t about being Jewish, but it’s about being a kid with a grandmother, and yet it’s one that Choochie will be able to relate to when she relates to things in ways other than shoving them into her mouth.

Which sent my brain off onto yet another tangent – how will I explain to Choochie why we don’t eat bacon or cheeseburgers or lobster? As I have mentioned before, Josh and I have a… unique approach to kashrut. We don’t keep kosher in a way that would matter to anyone who cares, but it’s just enough to make us annoying to friends and family who are kind enough to feed us. We do it because it matters to us that we’re Jewish, and not eating or mixing certain foods is yet another way that we make choices based on our values. No, I don’t actually think G-d cares if I eat a bacon cheeseburger or not, nor do I think that passing up a tasty lobster makes me a better person or a better Jew. It’s just another way in which I insert my Jewish values and identity into my daily life, and that matters to me. It matters to us, and hopefully someday it will matter to Choochie. But how does one explain that to a three year old?  (Perhaps I should cross that bridge when I come to it…)

All of this is just a slice of the big pie that I am struggling with – what does it mean to raise a child with a minority identity in a majority culture? Yes, with her blond hair and blue eyes, she will be able to pass, just as her father and I often have (until we say our names!), just as Professor Gates can’t, regardless of whether or not he opens his mouth. But I don’t want her to have to pass, or to want to pass. As a white woman, she will be lucky enough to reap the benefits of white privilege, but she will also grow up in a world where the benign among us assume that she eats ham for Easter and has a Christmas tree and the anti-Semites would prefer that she didn’t exist at all, or at least not in her current form. I hope that as her mother, I can teach her to find her way of responding in a thoughtful, appropriate, and empowering manner. As Prof. Gates has shown us, it isn’t always easy.

About Girls and Women

I have a confession to make.  I wanted a girl.  It’s true.  I know I wasn’t supposed to care, I was supposed to be happy with a healthy baby.  (And I was.)   There weren’t any specific reasons why I wanted a daughter, but I did.  So I spent nine months hoping, and then we finally found out.

Josh and I didn’t know what we were having until the moment Choochie finally made her way out into the world, at which point Josh said, “It’s a boy!  No, it’s a girl!  I can’t tell!” (It had been a very long four days.)  When the midwife told us that she was, in fact, a girl, I was really happy.  I think the first words out of my mouth were, “Oh, thank G-d I don’t have to plan a bris.”  The midwife must have thought we were both nuts.

It never occurred to me that I wouldn’t want a girl.  I grew up with strong female role models, including my grandmothers and mother, and my sisters and I always felt as wanted and loved as our younger brother.  And yet, according to Anne Firth Murray*, “of the 68 million girls born around the world annually, the majority are greeted with varying degrees of disappointment by relatives hoping for a boy” (p. 18).  Murray goes on to describe the ways in which being born female is a risk factor from the very beginning – even if baby girls make it to a healthy birth, and survive infancy, they will be more likely to be neglected and have less access to food and health care than their brothers.  They will grow up with fewer educational and economic opportunities, and face violence and discrimination throughout their lives.  I would like to think that the United States is beyond this, yet, as Murray notes 1 in 3 American women will “experience violence at the hands of an intimate partner – about the same level as for women around the world” (p. 19).

When my daughter was born, just 12 days before Barack Obama was elected to be the 44th President, hope was in the air.  I had never before heard so many people talking about the election, caring about the election, and wishing for something to change.  As Josh and I pushed Choochie’s stroller through town to our local voting station, I marvelled at the fact that my daughter would grow up in a world where an African-American man from a interracial couple can become the leader of the most powerful nation on earth.  I thought he would be a good president.  I hoped he would be a great president.

When I heard him speak in Cairo last week, I was not disappointed.  Especially when he took time to address women’s rights – something I never heard our former President do.  Here is what he said:

“The sixth issue that I want to address is women’s rights.

I know there is debate about this issue. I reject the view of some in the West that a woman who chooses to cover her hair is somehow less equal, but I do believe that a woman who is denied an education is denied equality. And it is no coincidence that countries where women are well-educated are far more likely to be prosperous.

Now let me be clear: issues of women’s equality are by no means simply an issue for Islam. In Turkey, Pakistan, Bangladesh and Indonesia, we have seen Muslim-majority countries elect a woman to lead. Meanwhile, the struggle for women’s equality continues in many aspects of American life, and in countries around the world.

Our daughters can contribute just as much to society as our sons, and our common prosperity will be advanced by allowing all humanity – men and women – to reach their full potential. I do not believe that women must make the same choices as men in order to be equal, and I respect those women who choose to live their lives in traditional roles. But it should be their choice. That is why the United States will partner with any Muslim-majority country to support expanded literacy for girls, and to help young women pursue employment through micro-financing that helps people live their dreams.”

I would like to highlight twelve words that our President said, words that we Americans might take for granted.  Our daughters can contribute just as much to society as our sons. In a world where parents selectively abort female fetuses, or encourage midwives to kill newborn daughters, our President’s statement should not be taken lightly.  There are many who, for historical, cultural, and economic reasons, quite simply do not believe that our daughters are just as valuable as our sons.  I know.  It’s hard to believe.

Our country, and our world have a long way to go towards equal rights for girls and women, and it was meaningful to hear a man, an extremely powerful man, acknowledge this sad truth.  In the meanwhile, I will continue to feel blessed and lucky to have been born into a family and a community that welcomes and embraces daughters, and I hope my own daughter will feel the same way.

If you’d like to learn more about the challenges that women face internationally, read Anne Firth Murray’s book (listed below) or check out the Global Fund for Women.  If you want to hear more about what women are doing right now to make a difference, listen to this amazing piece on NPR about Iranian women and the One Million Signatures Campaign.

* Murray, A.F. (2008). From Outrage to Courage: Women Taking Action for Health and Justice. Monroe, ME: Common Courage Press.

Lesson #2: Community

Dear F,

Today your Aunt R married your Uncle T.  You were there for all of it – R getting ready, the photographs, the tisch, the bedeken, the chuppah, and the celebration and meal afterwards.  F, you were amazing.  Although you slept through parts of it (the photographs, the ceremony, and some of the reception), you were awake for much of it, and you loved it.  Your father held you in his arms during the dancing, and you were smiling and happy the whole time.  As we whirled around the room during the hora, I thought for sure you were either going to throw up or start screaming, but you didn’t.  You reveled in it, soaking in the music, the people, the lights, and the motion.  It was a delight to watch you, and to be with you.

Not long after the dancing, you got hungry.  I plopped myself (literally) down into a chair with a good view of the dance floor and nursed you.  You ate for almost half an hour, mostly undistracted by the commotion of the room, and I enjoyed a moment to reflect.  I looked out over the dance floor, and watched everyone dancing – our Rabbi and her wife, the parents of one of Auntie R’s good friends from high school, Bubbe’s friend’s daughter and her boyfriend, your father’s cousins, Uncle T’s friends, and your Zayde’s college roommates, among other people.  Most of these people didn’t know each other – they are connected through Auntie R and Uncle T.  While none of them are amongst best friends, or even our closest friends, they are all part of our community, and we are blessed to know them.

Being part of a community is about so much more than knowing people.  It’s about having a place (by which I mean a place of people, as opposed to a place of space) to celebrate, learn, worship, and have fun.  Community is about building and maintaining relationships with others who share your interests, whatever they may be.  But it’s also about the smaller moments, such as seeing someone you know in the grocery store or the local coffee shop, or having someone to go to when you need a recommendation for a plumber or mechanic.  These days, it’s also about having connections online, and while these are no substitute for the real thing, internet communities are quite useful and do have their place.

Wherever and however one finds it, the power and importance of a community lies in its ability to keep us connected and grounded, reminded that we are not alone, and that we don’t have to figure it all out on our own.  Even those brief encounters, when someone remembers your name and is happy to see you, add richness and meaning to life, and provide us with perspective that we might not be able to enjoy otherwise.  So, F, while I wish for you a life of close family and friends, I also hope you are able to find a community that nourishes and supports you.

Lesson #1: The Do-Over

F,
You are  just over 4 months old, and you have changed so much in the past 17 weeks.  You’re interactive and responsive, engaged and engaging.  I can actually see a person emerging, which is quite a change from the wiggly little lump you had been for the first weeks of your life.

Now that it’s really hitting me that one day you will be a woman, I feel as though I should share whatever tidbits of wisdom I may stumble upon with you.  I’m still learning myself, mind you, finding my way, and there is much I don’t know, and so much to figure out.  Nonetheless, when I have some morsel to pass along, I will try to do so.

Today I had a chance at a do-over, and I was grateful for the opportunity to get it right the second time, to say what I wish I had said the first time, and to have the time and space in my mind to realize (and appreciate) what had transpired.  The details aren’t terribly interesting, but suffice it to say that a couple of years ago I stuck my foot in my mouth when conversing with someone I care about very much.  It was nothing serious, fortunately, but egregious enough that I have continued to remember it from time to time, much to my ongoing chagrin.  She was gracious and lovely about it, correcting me in a respectful way.  I came away from the conversation feeling stupid and ashamed, acutely aware of the numerous things I could have said instead to convey the feelings I was trying to share.

We were on the phone again today, she and I, and much to my surprise and pleasure, I had an opportunity to get it right.  This conversation was nearly identical to the one we had those years ago, with one important difference.  This time, I said what I wished I had said all those years ago.  I’m sure she didn’t notice, and our interaction was quite unremarkable to her.  But it was an important moment for me, as I was reminded of the value of the do-over.  Although most mistakes are reparable and most errors can be corrected, we don’t often get a chance at a do-over.  Unfortunately, when we do get the chance, we often miss it, speed right by it in the haste and pressure of life.  My wish for you, F, is not that you never make mistakes, but that when you do make them you are able to recognize them, learn from them, and be able to recognize the do-over opportunity when it comes your way so you can take full advantage of it.