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.

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.

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?”

Calculated Risk

This morning I put the Chooch in her stroller and headed over to the local coffee shop, as I have done many mornings before.  As I approached the 4-way intersection near our house, I saw that the green light was in my favor.  I looked both ways, saw no cars, and headed into the intersection.  Just as I was almost across, a city employee in his truck came  down the street pretty quickly, and made the turn into the intersection.  He didn’t come anywhere near us, but he did hit the brakes long enough to lean out the window and yell at me.  “Hey lady!  What do you think you’re doing?  You’ve got a baby in there!  What are you thinking, not crossing with the walk signal?  You gotta be more careful!”  His tone was angry and loud.  I looked away and kept walking.

As I headed down the block, I felt humiliated.  Had I done the wrong thing?  Had I put my baby at risk?  Should I have pushed the button and waited for the walk signal?  I felt my cheeks burn, and tears came to my eyes.  I was bothered by how upset I was by this guy yelling at me.  Was I, dare I say it, a bad mother?

At the end of the next block, I came to another light.  I had to cross, so I was sure to push the button and wait for the walk signal.  There was a minivan with two carseats in the back approaching the intersection, and the Mom who was driving slowed down before turning left across the yellow light.  The driver behind the minivan honked repeatedly and gave her the middle finger, presumably because she had slowed down at the yellow light, preventing the angry driver from making it through the intersection.

This interaction moved me past my humiliation into anger.  I stood on the corner, waiting for the light to change, thinking, What the fuck?  I get yelled at for not being careful enough, and this other mother is harassed for being too cautious?  Do these people have any idea how many calculated risks we mothers take each day?  Do we put the baby down with a blanket to sleep?  She might sleep better with it, but am I taking a risk with SIDS?  I think the new carseat is installed properly, but we can’t get an appointment to have the police check it out for two more weeks.  Do we leave her in a carseat that is too small, or take our chances with the new one?  Are we going to immunize the baby?  Should I let her eat grass?  Sand?  How many times do we let her fall?  Do we catch her every time?  Do we offer her wheat and cheese, knowing that she could theoretically be allergic, even though the likelihood is quite small?  Have I made a mistake keeping her in daycare with the swine flu looming?  Is it ok for me to let her ride in a shopping cart without cleaning it off first?

These decisions, these calculated risks, are the meat of motherhood, of parenting.  They are what makes the daily activities of raising a baby so damn exhausting.  No decision is just a decision – it is a choice about the safety, the health, the growth, the very existence of our babies.  So we do the best we can to make the best possible choices, but inevitably someone is going to judge us for what we have done.  Fine.  I’m fine with that.  But I’m less fine when they’re yelling those judgments at me out of the window of a passing car.

Having said all of that, you’re probably wondering why I crossed without waiting for the walk signal.  For the same banal reasons that guide most of our daily decisions – I was in a hurry, the person before me had just pressed the button triggering the walk signals, so I knew I would have to wait several light cycles before we could cross, and there were no cars coming when we entered the crosswalk.  As we were approaching the intersection, I had been thinking about the morning schedule – we would need to get back home in time for breakfast and bath before a nap which she should take before the music class at 11 am, etc etc.  Perhaps I should have slowed down and waited for the light, but I took a risk.  A calculated risk.  Welcome to motherhood.

As I stood at the same intersection on the way home, my anger continued to bubble, but I focused on staying calm.  Perhaps the city employee was right.  I need to slow down, take it easy, and make the safest decisions possible.  So I carefully waited for the walk light, looked both ways, saw it was clear, and headed across the intersection.  I wasn’t halfway across when a cyclist came racing through and had to swerve to avoid us.

Everyone’s Writing About the Bad Mommy…

Those of you who read my recent post about the Bad Mommy phenomenon have probably heard of Ayelet Waldman’s memoir, “Bad Mother: A Chronicle of Maternal Crimes, Minor Calamities, and Occasional Moments of Grace“.  If you haven’t read the book, you might enjoy it – I’m halfway through it now, and I’ve found it to be pretty good so far.  There have been a number of commentaries and reviews of the book, but my favorite by far is by Marjorie Ingall, published by Tablet.  This is the piece I wish I had written.  She described so eloquently exactly what it is that irritates me about the Bad Mommy discourse.  Here is an excerpt from her article:

What is new is the notion of fake casualness. Now we’re supposed to be relaxed and real, but this unstudied-ness is, in fact, carefully studied. “Authenticity” is the operative buzzword. One trend in weddings is for low-key-seeming family-style fetes that actually cost as much as a more formal event. Clothing trends are bohemian and punk-influenced rather than overtly luxe, but they still come at price points that would make a real hippie have a seizure. Fashion mags talk about how much men love women who eat, and urge women to have dessert, but we’re still supposed to be a size two.

In other words, the standards women are held to are as high as ever. Now we’re not supposed to be self-negatingly child-centered, but our kids still have to come out brilliant, accomplished, and adorable. No wonder it’s easier to throw up your hands and call yourself “bad” than engage in debate about the impossibility of perfect goodness.

There’s probably more to be said about the whole issue, but I’ll leave you to your own research for now.  In addition to Ingall’s thoughts, there are a number of other worthwhile reviews of the book which offer insightful commentaries on this phenomenon:

Susan Dominus for The New York Times

Anne Hulbert for Slate.com

Jill Lepore for The New Yorker

Lilith and Brain, Child have also published reviews, but they don’t appear to be available online at this time.

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.

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.

In Which I Add My Two (Make that Ten) Cents to The Bad Mother Dialogue…

I haven’t written for awhile, and it’s not for lack of things to say.  There has been a topic, an issue, rattling around in my brain for the past week or so.  It actually took up residence months ago, but I have been reticent to write about it, because it is essentially the third rail of Mommy Blogging, and I try to stay away from the really controversial issues. (You’ll notice I haven’t blogged about immunizations, and yes, I do have an opinion on the topic, and yes, I will likely write about it one of these days.)  I’ve started several posts on other issues, but this particular matter has really gummed up the works, and I suspect the wheels won’t start moving until I get it out.  So here goes.

I need to write about The Bad Mother.  Those of you who are hooked into the Mommy Blogosphere are undoubtedly aware of this phenomenon.  Even if you aren’t a Wired Mom, I’m sure you have heard a mother at a park or in school or at a store or even in your own living room refer to herself as A Bad Mother.  There are countless blogs and books and articles and podcasts about The Bad Mother. (I am purposefully not linking to any of them – I don’t want to pin this donkey tail on anyone in particular.  You can find them yourself if you are interested.)

For those of you who aren’t entirely sure what I am talking about, here goes.  The Bad Mother Thing is a current trend in the Mommy World wherein we Mothers confess our Badness to friends, fellow mothers, and total strangers (in books, on websites, etc).  Our confessions range from the banal (“I ignored my children today while I watched the finale of Dancing with the Stars”) to the common but unspoken (“I started taking anti-depressants after the baby was born”) to the just plain stupid (“I feed my baby generic formula instead of the brand-name stuff”).

Now, before I share my thoughts about The Bad Mother Phenomenon, I need to say two things.  First, and most importantly, I am absolutely positively 100% guilty of almost everything I am about critique.  I have felt like a Bad Mother, I have referred to myself as A Bad Mother, and I have judged other mothers for their Badness (which usually ends up biting me in the ass, not surprisingly).  Secondly, my thoughts on this topic are not fully formed, but they are formed enough to be taking up space in my brain, so I welcome your thoughts and comments, as always.

Ok, here goes.  Here’s my problem with the Bad Mother phenomenon –it is representative of a lack of perspective by those of us who tote the Bad Mother line, and it only serves to continue the already damaging trend of mothers judging, criticizing, and putting down other mothers.  Let me ‘splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.

First, as far as I can remember, I haven’t ever actually read or heard a Bad Mother confession that was actually representative of Bad Mothering.  I’ve heard mothers talk about making choices that other mothers might not make, and I’ve heard them talk about doing things that child development specialists and pediatricians probably wouldn’t support in their roles as child development specialists and pediatricians.  (For example, I fed Choochie Floorios and floorberries, and I think she ate a decent amount of sand at the lake today.)  However, I would bet my baby that if you got those people to talk to you as mothers and fathers, they would absolutely agree that they did the same thing, or worse, when they were raising their little ones.  (Furthermore, any social worker could, and should, tell you all the reasons why it’s good for children to be frustrated and ignored and challenged and annoyed on a somewhat regular basis, but more on that later.)

So, why is this a problem?  What’s wrong with mothers verbally acknowledging their doubts about whether or not they are making the right choices about the mundane yet real issues that arise all the time when you’re raising a baby?  Not a thing, in my opinion.  There’s nothing wrong with struggling with it and talking about – I think acknowledging and exploring the ups and downs of being a mother is valuable and important.  My concern has to do with the context and the framing, with the label of Bad Mothering.  There is a difference between questioning our own parenting styles and decisions and calling ourselves (or others) Bad Mothers.

In order to understand why this is problematic, you need to understand the context.  The Bad Mother confessions tend to happen in two different ways – either through anonymous confessions published in books, websites, and blogs, or during conversations between people who have chosen to identify themselves (either in person or in writing).  In my experience, those of who ascribe to the Bad Mother School (and I include myself in this) do so with pride.  We wave our Bad Mother flag any chance we get – Look at me!  I let my kid eat rocks!  I didn’t change her diaper for six hours!  I let her cry in her crib for 20 minutes while I finished reading People Magazine!  I’m on anti-depressants!  I put my baby in daycare!  I didn’t put my baby in daycare and I’m going insane!

And the conversations continue from there, with each Bad Mother doing her best to out-Bad the other Mother.  You left your baby on the bus?  Yeah, well, I *put* my baby on the bus with a one-way ticket!  It’s about distinguishing ourselves from Those Other Mothers, the ones who never let their kids watch TV all afternoon, and always have creative, stimulating activities for the kids, don’t let the babies go a week without a bath, and make nutritious, well-rounded meals three times a day.  We may be negligent, ill-informed, bored-to-tears mothers who feed our kids Chey Boyaredee and can’t remember the words to a single nursery rhyme or song, but by g-d, at least we’re not hovering, obsessive helicopter mothers who will undoubtedly chaperone every date their kid ever has, and are just one little crazy away from moving in with the kid at college.

Yes, it’s true, who among us doesn’t love a little schadenfreude to get through the day?  But dumping all of our worries and guilt into the Bad Mother Barrel is problematic in some major ways.  First, and perhaps most importantly, many of the issues that are often considered Bad Mother material just aren’t.  What we Bad Mothers often refer to as ignoring or neglecting our children is described in the literature as “low intrusiveness” parenting, and is linked to higher achievement in the first grade.  Going on anti-depressants or getting into therapy is actually about taking care of yourself so you can care for your child, which is what good mothering is all about.  Those moments when we drink a beer while the kid watches a little TV are about taking care of ourselves so we don’t fly completely off the handle, which not only prevents us from flying off aforementioned handle, but also teaches the kids that sometime she has to entertain herself while Mommy needs to take care of herself.  These are important lessons for kids to learn, and there is no perfect mother. Let me just say it again – there is no perfect mother.  We social workers talk a lot about The Good Enough Mother, and chances are that if your worst Bad Mother confession is about the time your kid dropped the F-Bomb at preschool, you’re a Good Enough Mother.

Even if your Bad Mother moment actually is a real Bad Mother moment, with no redeeming values, chances are that if you are involved in this dialogue, your Bad Mommy oversights are cushioned by developmentally-appropriate toys, safe and caring childcare, generally healthy food, and stimulating experiences.  Thus, the Bad Mother conversations often end up being something like “Your kid fell off the bed?  Dude!  My kid fell out of the high chair.  Whoop!  Gotta run – we’re off to a Mommy and Me Music Class.”

Furthermore, as I mentioned above, even if we don’t ever blatantly bad mouth other mothers in the course of the conversation, the implication is there.  We may be Bad Mothers, but at least we are Bad Mothers in small, insignificant ways.  At least we’re not fundamentally fucking up our kids by turning them into prissy, entitled, overscheduled overachievers, right?  The thing is, raising kids is HARD.  It’s really HARD.  It challenges us on almost every level, and raises issues about who we are, where we came from, who we want to be, and who we want our kids to be.  Although it sounds like a cliché, I do believe that most of us are doing the best we can to keep our kids healthy, safe, and feeling loved while not going completely insane.  We’re all going to have different ways of doing it, and we have to figure out what works for us.  As mothers, we have a responsibility to support each other, rather than judge each other.  Because nobody is going to understand the challenge of being a mother like another mother.  That means something.

In addition to the “why can’t we all just get along” issue, there is the problem of perspective.  When we spend our time focusing on the fact that we are Bad Mothers because we returned some of our daughter’s excessive number of birthday presents that she doesn’t need any way to buy a carseat for our son, we lose sight of the fact that Bad Mothering Actually Happens.  And then when it does happen, it’s hard to know when, where, or how to talk about it.  When you hear all of your friends talking about how they are such Bad Mothers because they let their babies play with dirty shoes or draw on each other, it makes it hard to talk about the more serious issues.  And, often when you do, people clam up.  You don’t often hear the same kind of “I’m a worse Bad Mother than you are” competition about actual Bad Mothering.  “Oh really?  Your daughter got second degree burns from coffee?  My daughter crawled through fire once and will be scarred for life!”  That kind of Bad Mother conversation just doesn’t happen, and it leaves those mothers who are actually struggling with real Bad Mother issues feeling lost and alone.

As long as I am talking about perspective, I feel compelled to point out that as an upper-middle-class White woman who has the time and resources to sit around and write blog posts, my world of Bad Mothering is incredibly limited.  There are mothers who cook meth in front of their babies, who plot and discuss plans to murder the landlord while the kids are listening, who physically and sexually abuse their children, who leave them for hours locked up without food or water… the list goes on, and as a social worker, I have seen and heard countless of these stories.  You might wonder what the point of even mentioning those mothers.  Well, the point is, we need to keep perspective, and remember that Bad Mothers actually do exist.  The dominant Bad Mother dialogue doesn’t acknowledge or respect the experiences and histories of those among us who had Bad Mothers or are struggling with being Bad Mothers, and it certainly doesn’t help any of us keep things in perspective.

So, those are my thoughts.  I’d love to hear yours.  In the meanwhile, I’m not going to stop talking about the craziness of motherhood, and chances are you’ll hear or read me going on about how Choochie and I were watching Wife Swap together yesterday because I just didn’t have it in me to do anything else.  But hopefully, I won’t call myself a Bad Mother for doing it.

Post script:  After I published this post, WordPress suggested related blog posts, including this one.  I know I said I wasn’t going to link to anyone else, but this particular site illustrated my point so perfectly…

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.