Sunday, June 13, 2010

Bumps in the road.

A working mom is a woman with three jobs and no time off. There's the so-called Real World work-for-money job, the neverending job of 'wife', and that of 'mom'. The three form a triangle of life for the mom... and sometimes it's like the Bermuda triangle for me. I get lost in the middle as all three pull at me with different strength and direction. They each pull with their own separate gravity. Part of the wife-mom gig is that I run the household, clean, organize bills... the never-ending little bullshit that makes the world go 'round. So, it's wake up to feed the baby-wake up to feed the baby-work-feed baby or pump at lunch-work-cook dinner-hold baby-eat dinner-bathe baby-rock/nurse baby to sleep-chores-sleep-repeat.

Such is my life. I can't deny it, I love being wife and mom. I am however the sole earner in my household for now, and it's rougher than I ever thought it would be because my baby and husband both need me so much some days, and I still have to get out of the car, walk into the cubefarm, and pretend like it's not tearing my heart open to do it.

Sometimes though, the situation requires me to stay home... such as last week when my newly mobile little guy suddenly propelled himself off the bed. My arm couldn't stop him. He was laying there nursing, I dozed off as I often do, then there was that surreal thud and mewling cry. I usually have my arm wrapped up around his body so we're belly-to-belly, but somehow he still found his way out, over, and off the bed... a close to hip-high drop were I standing. I felt sick. I cried. I held him and rocked him and cried with him because I could not protect him from his newfound skills, then I had to figure out the best course of action as his little forehead turned purple and two goose eggs appeared. Run neurological exam? Check. Pupils equal? Check. Call Dr. Jerkwad? Check. Miss half a day of work to make sure he's okay, endanger the financial stability of the family for four precious hours with my son? Check.

This is where the triangle begins to pull. Husband and son need me emotionally and financially. My co-workers need me to show up and do my job. My husband and son need me to be here and be the rock they can count on. They need me at work to be dependable and punctual and productive. My husband needs me to be okay, I can't be okay if I don't know for certain that our son is okay. My son needs a mama to hug and hold until the hurts are gone. All of this bounced through my head when my husband asked me to PLEASE just stay home that day. I felt guilty that my co-workers might need me (and it turns out they did, since a critical piece of data failed and my job had to be done manually) while I'm sitting in my rocker holding my bruised up baby and talking to doctors. I felt guilty about feeling guilty for being where I belonged at that moment in time.

I went back to work that afternoon after it was clear that my son has no lasting damage, after the doctor cleared him, after my numerous neurological tests passed (I've had those tests run on me so many times, I could probably run them on someone else in my sleep... but I'll probably tell that story some other time), after I got him to hold still for ice packs and arnica oil. I had a co-worker tell me I was lucky I missed that morning at work- when the process broke and there was chaos. Was I? I'd rather have a shit day at work any day than to witness my son in pain. I'd rather run manual data entry any day than see my baby bruised and see that fear and to hear the tone in my husband's voice.
-L.

big bullies.

Women are just big bullies.

Yes, that is a sweeping generalization, but it's one that I've been contemplating since childhood- where the obvious differences between me and my more desirable peers was farther reaching than just my big, bulky glasses and protruding overbite... I was an outsider from the inside out, and most of the other girls made sure I knew that. As an adult, it became more and more clear when I became pregnant with my son over a year ago. I was reminded of it again in a blog post I read last week, http://www.birthactivist.com/2010/06/what-we-tell-our-daughters/. After the struggles
we as a gender have endured for equality and everything else, one would think we'd be kinder
to one another. After all, we are women. Shouldn't we support and care for one another?
Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to work that way.

I work in an office with over 20 women and a handful of men. After years of working in male
dominated environments, it's been an adjustment to work in a heavily estrogenated environment.
It's not necessarily a bad thing. It's just different. Women tend to bite their words and whether
intentionally or unintentionally, we are just unbelievably cruel to one another. I can compare
this to various other disenfranchised cultures, or simply to crabs in a bucket- we just aren't kind.

Back to pregnancy though. I've been un-pregnant now for six months. I admit I haven't been
putting tons of effort into losing the baby weight since my obsession has been feeding my breasts
so they will continue to feed my boy. Amazingly, my supply has made a comeback after its drop
in early May. But I digress. Six months un-pregnant. I still make two or three runs to the break
room for water and tea, like I did when I was pregnant. I still wear maternity tops since they aren't
too tight and they leave room for easy nursing access for little man. I have not put on any weight
I've just maintained. I thought I was looking pretty good for bringing a nine-pounder into the world.
All these things considered, I had a co-worker walk up to me one afternoon and ask me that most
dreaded of personal questions, "are you pregnant?"
I quickly responded with "nope, just fat and unmotivated."
I then retreated back to my desk, the safety of my cubicle to spend the rest of my afternoon
questioning whether I really looked *that* awful.

The same sort of things happen in pregnancy. I had to deal with the constant onslaught of comments
about how large I looked, the horror stories about how awful labor and birth can be, how scary pregnancy
is, that my choice to have a homebirth was possibly going to kill me or our baby, and every birth trauma
under the sun became as common in passing discussion as attempts to touch the growing belly without
permission. When I see a pregnant woman, my first response isn't any of the above. No, my first
thought is 'how much longer do you have?' followed by 'how can I boost, honor, and respect her?'

If we could change the culture of women to begin responding to one another in a positive manner, to
stop pulling one another back into a bucket of negative feelings when we aspire to be okay with ourselves,
perhaps things could be better for all of us. Perhaps women's health care will improve for mamas and babies
because we won't expect that another woman suffer humiliation and fear because someone else did.
Perhaps if we lift each other up we can bring about a better world because we'll all just *feel* better
about being wherever we are.

So, ladies... KNOCK IT OFF. Play nicely. Support each other. Share positive stories, especially
with first timers. We are learning from each other and we are all responsible for teaching the next generation.

-L.