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Work Life, in the Balance

5/23/2017

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I’ve noticed a theme running through my conversations with friends in a similar stage of motherhood as I am, about work. Some of my friends, like me, are fortunate enough to have a choice about whether they work. Others don’t work because they can’t afford the childcare. Others work full or part time, and wrestle with the feeling that they are never fully present anywhere, while still others are trailing military spouses who have forgone their careers for a season to raise children while they move every few years.

It’s come up a lot lately, as since March I have worked a part-time job that I wasn’t looking for. It’s not a dream job. It’s definitely not great timing. And yet, after several hilariously direct conversations with my potential employer, I ended up going for it.
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In the week I was learning and mulling, I sat in a circle of women, mostly mothers and one young newlywed, and fielded this question: “Christina, do you ever regret staying home with your kids?”

It’s an interesting one whose answer is more complicated than it seems on the surface. Short answer: Of course not. But do I miss work? Absolutely. I miss tackling problems that can be solved, feeling proficient at something, making money, having my work (and, sometimes, very existence) validated. I miss going to work sometimes, which this part-time-from-home solution does nothing to solve, but which I’m not looking to solve at this moment. Naturally, the perks of being able to stay home with my children are numerous. I’m available for field trips and sick days; I’m there every day when my girls get off the bus. I get to go to a mom’s group, a morning Bible study and playdates; I get to read stories every afternoon before nap time; I get to be outside on perfect days and take impromptu trips to the park or the beach; I get to have coffee or lunch with friends on occasion; I get to go to Trader Joe’s on a Tuesday morning instead of with the masses on Saturday afternoons or weekdays after five.
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But do I worry about the gap in my resume and experience? Definitely. Our workplace culture—in general— isn’t kind to mothers. I remember fielding the insinuation, when I had two babies and worked full time, that someone else was raising my children. And since I’ve been home, I’ve sometimes felt the accusation that I’m somehow “wasting” my time, education, experience or talents by being home. That I’m not living up to my “potential.”

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Here’s the thing: Both of those extremes are ridiculous. I am a feminist the way I can’t help but think everyone should be: I believe women are inherently and unalienably equal to men. Feminism, to me, does not mean we fight for the right to make certain choices; it means we fight for the right to be able to make the right choices for us. There have been times when I didn’t have a choice but to work or when the right choice for me was working. There have been others where it wasn’t. And now, I find myself in a bit of an in between. Since I found out about this baby, I have felt a pang. I’d thought that I was about to embark on a season as a mother where I might find what was next for me as an individual—that I would have more breathing room than I’d had before—and I was excited to explore it. So, when I learned we would be setting the clock back, I prayed—desperately, selfishly, maybe—“Lord, remind me you haven’t forgotten about me.”  Of course, I had ideas about what that something might look like, and this offer I got wasn’t that at all. But I felt convicted; who’s to say because this opportunity didn’t look the way I wanted it to that it wasn’t for me?

Juggling work and home and kids is a struggle, but I remind myself that because it is hard doesn’t mean we’re doing it wrong. I called it juggling and not balancing for a reason-- to juggle requires there to be a ball in my hand and others in the air at any given moment-- they cannot all be held and balanced at once. And sometimes some of them fall. But there are things I get from working that my husband, children, friends and even creative pursuits can’t deliver. It’s not fair of me to ask it of them. And there are seasons where I have needed these things more than others. Maybe I need them now.


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​Since I started working in March, my house is mostly a mess most of the time. I have said no to things I would have rather done. I have run out of coffee on several occasions; I ran out of milk on my husband’s birthday and had to borrow some from our next door neighbor so he could have coffee when he woke up. I haven’t seen the bottom of any of our hampers in nearly three months. I have fed my children differently than I’d prefer more often than I’d prefer. I’ve spent a small fortune on fill-in-the-gap childcare. I haven’t done a properly planned-out grocery shopping trip, and I have dragged my son on errands when he should have been napping because I couldn’t waste my kid-free time on shopping.

But also, I have been reminded that I am competent. I have skills, knowledge and abilities that make me a desirable employee. I can exhibit a level of professionalism on the phone that belies the fact that I’m sitting at a desk in my cluttered laundry room/office, praying my child stays enthralled with the show he’s watching since he is skipping his nap today.

I model behaviors for my children every day, and while I obviously feel that staying home with my children is a high calling and worthy use of my time, I am excited to show them—especially my daughters—that women are more than just what they are able to do for others. Sure, I model this in how I carve out time for myself and my passions and friends, but I am excited to show them, now that they are old enough to notice, that this can apply to work as well.

Now more than ever, I am embracing what I’ve always known to be true: there is no right way. This might work well for us for now, for the duration of this contract. When our little girl arrives this summer, it will not. I reserve the right to shift, and I am grateful for the freedom I have to change my mind. I am grateful for an employer who, though she cannot relate to being a mother, recognizes the need mothers have for flexibility in their work options and does not see this as a liability.  I wish more employers realized the upside of hiring women in this season of life—of offering them something other than an all-or-nothing proposition.

​Absolutely, I recognize that having this to wrestle over at all is in itself a privilege that not many are afforded. If you find yourself in that place, without options, I hope you never for a minute allow yourself to feel guilt or condemnation for your situation. Whether you work by necessity, choice, or some combination of the two, or whether you’re home because you have to be, because you want to be, or a little of both, I hope you find rest in the knowledge that you are doing the best you can for your family, and that is always enough.  I don’t know whether my choice was wise or ill-timed, but I’m working to navigate it with as much poise as I can muster, and I’m proud of the effort if not always the results. And I’m maybe illogically looking forward to a couple months from now, when work falls away and focusing all of my efforts on welcoming our newborn will—in some ways—feel like a relief. ​
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Best of What's Around

2/16/2013

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Maybe it’s a little late to talk about Valentine’s Day.  But, it seems, that’s just how I do things.  Yesterday, when we called my mom on her birthday so the girls could sing to her, my youngest yelled, “Sorry it’s late!” at the conclusion of the song. She is unaccustomed to our actually being on time.

Though it’s entirely contrived, we usually celebrate Valentine’s Day, but I can’t remember the last time we did it on the 14th.  Before kids, maybe? The last several years Daniel has been traveling, so it’s usually pre or post, and often at home. Once it was at a Bertucci’s on the Jersey Turnpike. Once it ended in The Great Vaseline Incident of 2011. That was awesome.

So I was pretty surprised when Daniel called from California last week to a) tell me he’d actually be home for Valentine’s Day, and b) ask if I wanted to go on a date, since he had already booked a sitter.  The answer to a question like that, of course, is yes.

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Valentine’s Day, like so many things as my children are getting a little older, is taking on new meaning.  I’ve never really cared for the manipulation of the holiday, but as I discussed it with my five-year-old, I saw it differently.  If it is, as I told her, a day about showing love to our friends and family then what’s not to like? 

We decorated mailboxes for each of us, about a week before, and I set up a station for them to make cards at their leisure.  As a result, this week I have vacuumed the rugs no fewer than four times to try to combat the unintended confetti that results when 3 and 5-year-olds cut construction paper and doilies to make “Valentimes.”  They learned to recognize a raised flag as a sign that they had “mail” and excitedly checked each day. 



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Mirabella and I made heart-shaped crayons for her classmates and she painstakingly signed nearly 40 cards for her friends.  We made olive oil and beeswax lotion for her teachers and placed it in tins she took great care picking out. She got to go on a date the night before with her Daddy, while Emerie and I made heart-shaped sugar cookies and a heart-themed lunch for her. That morning, she couldn’t wait to get to school.  That afternoon, after a morning of running errands, Emerie and I sat down to lunch.  I felt kind of guilty that she wasn’t having a more “special” day, but she said, “Mommy, dis is a GWEAT day. Dank you for coming to lunch with me.” And of course, I melted.

After school we finished presents for Daniel and made chocolate covered strawberries and talked with neighbors who came by to deliver Valentines. We got ready for the babysitter, with heart plates and napkins and homemade pizza, then I rushed off to get dressed.

When the babysitter arrived, she was not the one the girls and I were expecting, thanks to Daniel’s mix up, so we all called her the wrong name, repeatedly.  We gave her flowers and chocolates and a card addressed to our other babysitter. 

A bit embarrassed but excited, we headed out for our date.  Which could hardly have gone worse, from an external perspective.  Though I had done my due diligence, we were surprised by a very limited prix-fixe menu, in which the prix was far too high.  Nearly every option featured shellfish, to which Daniel is allergic. We were not noticed for nearly 15 minutes after we sat down.  After that, all of the courses we were compelled to order were wrong, late, or cold. I lost track of how many times our waitress apologized.  At the tail end of a six-week cycle of sickness that had plagued all of us, I had completely lost my voice.  We both leaned as far as we could across the table in an attempt to communicate, and I resorted to charades motions and sign language.  We found the humor, but it wasn’t easy given the amount of money we were paying and the treat this was  supposed to be.

When we arrived home, toys were still strewn about and the babysitter was nowhere to be found, which could only mean that the children were not asleep.  Upstairs I found them both crying, a diaper the dog had eaten torn to shreds on the bathroom floor, and the mortified babysitter standing in the middle of it all.  “I am so sorry,” I mouthed.

I calmed the kids down, found the lost teddy bear responsible for inciting the meltdown, whispered them a story, and Daniel saw our poor babysitter out. We cleaned up the mess and sat down briefly before just deciding to call it a night.

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I thought back to the weekend.  Before I had known we would be able to go out for Valentine’s Day, I bought a Groupon for a three-course, gourmet meal for two from a food delivery service. We had put the kids to bed early, bought a bottle of fantastic Spanish wine, prepared dinner together and ate off china and crystal by candlelight. I broke our no-shoes-in-the-house rule because sometimes you just have to wear heels.  The food was good and hot.  There was a dog at my feet, toys on the floor in the next room and children upstairs.  And it was perfect.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice and sometimes essential to go out. I’ll never argue otherwise.  Sometimes it’s the easiest way to “see” each other again.  But in this case, we were reminded of something that, in our excitement, we might have forgotten, if but for a moment.  In the wisdom of Dave Matthews, “Turns out not where but who you’re with that really matters.”

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Who Comes First?

6/7/2011

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Upon my return from, gulp, nine days abroad sans children, I find myself discussing the why.  “Wasn’t it hard to leave your kids?” many have asked, some in a slightly accusatory tone.  Short answer: Yes. It was hard to leave my kids. I cried when we walked out the door. I cried at least once after a long-distance phone call in which my tearful three-year-old told me she missed me. But I went, and I would do it again and we hope to sooner than later. Why?

I know this is not necessarily a normal parental attitude, and it's certainly not the one my parents modeled. I remember being nine years old and staying with my grandparents for 10 days with my brothers, eight and two, while my parents took their one-and-only solo vacation to St. Thomas. I cried. The boys cried.  I said that I forgot what my mother looked like and listened to Anne Murray songs because her voice reminded me of my mom. When my parents returned, my mom said they would not go on a trip like that again; they missed us too much.  But no permanent damage was done.

Before we had kids, we discussed the importance of our marriage and its impact on our children.  We said our children would not be our top priority. It was easy to say it then; our children were faceless.  But now they are Mirabella, the princess-obsessed, exceptionally bright and precocious 3-year-old with the business-like blonde bob she is always tucking behind her ears, and Emerie, the tiny sprite of a toddler with a head full of loopy strawberry curls, sky-blue eyes, and the tenacity of a much larger child.  They have, quite literally, made our lives full. They have also only increased the urgency of prioritizing our relationship.  Life as two working parents with two pre-school-aged children requires teamwork.  Dividing to conquer. Days are filled with tasks, not always quality time.  We get to the point where we can’t see each other anymore.

I don’t understand it when people say they “don’t believe in divorce.”  It is irrefutable; it exists, regardless of whether you believe in it.  This fact, and the related topic of wanting to stay together as opposed to "not divorced," was the focus of our premarital counseling. We just celebrated five years of marriage, and it is clearer to me than ever why so many marriages fail. I can absolutely see how people “fall out of love” with each other or feel that they don’t know each other anymore. It takes vigilance, and sometimes the (valid) reasons not to make time for us pile up.  Sometimes it’s okay; life is a series of seasons. I am prone to letting it slide, but Daniel has always  been our advocate. He always looks for opportunities to get out or away, to the point that I sometimes tease that he wants to pretend we have a different life.  It's not that; he is unabashedly resolute in his desire not to lose us.  One night in Rome, on the rooftop terrace of our hotel, I thanked him for making it happen. Left up to me, we might go on the occasional date, but we would not be selfish for our marriage.  We would be available to everyone but each other.  We would be wrong.

This is not the proverbial question, “which came first;” that one is obvious.  We came first.  We were here first, sipping coffee on park benches all over Baltimore, marveling in the joy of just being together, before those precious girls were even a thought. And, it's my sincere prayer that we will still be here once the girls have started their own lives. Ayelet Waldman wrote this controversial piece a few years back in the New York Times about why she loves her husband more than her kids.  Uproar ensued. I think some of her language was a little inflammatory, maybe to get a reaction, maybe because that's actually how she feels.  I know in my writing I have often been rightly accused of assuming the good and highlighting the bad.  But I think I agree with her central point.  We do our children a disservice when they are the absolute center of our lives, home, and family.  

At work one day a co-worker said he admired that we made time to go away.  I mentioned that we have chosen to put our marriage ahead of our children for the benefit of our children.  Himself a 35-year marriage veteran with four grown children, he cringed; "I think the kids come first, but I understand what you're saying."  A fellow mother of young kids asked for details of the trip with envious eyes.  "We've been married eight years and we've only ever been away for one night a couple of times.  I have never spent more than a night away from my kids."

I'm not advocating leaving children for long stretches, or at least not for the sake of leaving children.  But the benefits of our trip-- the reconnection, the time our children spent bonding with their grandparents, the lesson they learned that Mommy and Daddy love each other and always come back, and the memories Daniel and I will have of our adventure together-- far outweighed our shared heartache over the separation.  Emerie took a couple weeks to realize I wasn't hopping on a plane every time I left the room, but she is fine now.  And though some may disagree, I think we are better parents post Italy.

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Freedom Isn't Free

4/12/2011

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Sunday night, at an impromptu dinner at our house with my parents, I lost my cool with my husband.

"This isn't really relevant," he said, "but softball starts this week."  He maintained, in front of our audience, that we had spoken about this before.  I maintain that he probably wouldn't have brought it up in front of our audience if that were the case.  The details aren't really important.  Suffice it to say, he is playing softball on Thursday nights, as he has most of the years we've been together.  It's not that the softball is new; it's that everything else is.  Since last season, we've started attending a small group on Thursdays with other couples from church.  They have become like family. And, of course, now Daniel travels.  Half the time, in fact.  Occasionally, I am crazy enough to brave small group without him, but usually that means I am tending to my small and noisy children, trying to keep them from keeping everyone else from enjoying the time.  Attempting this feat after work is a challenge, and past bedtime it's impossible.  Then I drive six blocks home (it's not a safe six blocks to walk in the dark alone) and drive around for about 20 minutes looking for parking.  This part can be alleviated, thanks to a wonderful friend who is willing to give us a ride.  The point is that with Daniel gone half the time and at softball the other half, that doesn't really leave much room for small group.

Well, that's one point.  The other is the larger subject of free time.  What it is, who gets it, and how often. We have a standing misunderstanding on this subject.  Daniel is convinced I believe traveling for work is living a life of leisure.  I know this isn't true, mostly.  But here's what I also know: it involves sleeping in a hotel.  Alone.  With lots of pillows and not even the remote possibility of being awakened by screaming children.  It involves absolutely no cooking or cleaning, no keeping anything alive, no laundry or ironing.  It is eating in restaurants, conversations with grownups, and free glasses of wine. It is caring for oneself.  Going to the bathroom alone.  These are luxuries mothers do not have.

I adore being a mother.  I love  caring for my little girls.  But to say that the role, lately, hasn't been a challenge would be silly.  It just has.  And I long for some time-- any time-- alone.  I have been asking for this since last fall, and Daniel has wholeheartedly supported it, but I haven't lobbied.  When it comes down to it, I cave.

I remember fifth-grade Social Studies with Mr. Davis, he of the chinstrap beard and rimless, octagonal glasses.  He taught us about opportunity cost.  I think of it every day.  I don't make time for time alone.  I don't demand it.  And even when it's offered, often I find "more useful" ways to spend it.  There is always shopping that could be done, or bath time, or a project I was meaning to finish, or bedtime stories, or cleaning, or even spending time with that husband of mine.  I defer to the family.

When softball was sprung on me, part of why I exploded was that I knew it would make me resentful.  But how can I be resentful if, when afforded the opportunity for time alone, I don't take it?  Yesterday Daniel sent me an Outlook calendar invite for Christina's Time (location: anywhere you want to be).  Since then I've been thinking-- how would I use the time?  I felt pressure to use it wisely, to make the most of it.  Should I have a drink with a friend?  Should I go shopping for spring clothes? Should I return the pair of shoes that broke today? Should I stay home and do Pilates? 

I should not stay home, this I know.  When the girls and I got home tonight, Daniel started to cook dinner.  I didn't know what to do, so I attempted to do a Masala Bangra (Indian dance) DVD with toddlers at my clumsy feet.  Needless advice: don't try that at home.  After we ate, I sat bribing Mirabella to finish her taco and scolding Emerie for pulling hair.

"Baby. Just go," Daniel said.

So I did.  I put on an unnecessary scarf and boots, and I am sitting at Starbucks.  Just me, my laptop and my cheap girl's mocha (order a coffee, add sweetener and cream, then dump a bunch of chocolate powder in.  I unscrew the cap.  For real.). When I left, I had to pry Emerie from my leg and tell Mirabella not to cry.  It didn't feel good.  But sitting here, I feel a little like the girl I used to be. The one who recharged by being alone; the one with a head full of words and the time to put them to paper. That's the girl I've always been and that Daniel fell in love with.  I have to believe my kids deserve to know her too.

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Setting the Tone

3/31/2011

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I used to parachute to school. Our minivan our aircraft, my  father our pilot.  He was, to our delight, terrible at landing, deliberately hitting the curb every time.  Turbulence, he'd say.  Most of the time, Dad's mood set the tone for the family.  If he was silly, as he often was, we knew we would have fun, no matter what we were doing. After countless drives home, I sat in the dark car dancing while he drummed on the steering wheel.  You just can't go in the house in the middle of a good song.

But when Dad was in a foul mood, it settled in over everyone. The infamous A1 incident is a good example. My brother set the cap on the bottle loosely so that when my dad shook it it sprayed through the air, mostly all over my white shirt.  For whatever reason, on that day, he did not see the humor.  We all laughed hysterically and were reprimanded.  I know he didn't intend to dictate the tone, but that's how it was. It always bothered me that I didn't feel capable of letting him be-- in whatever state he felt like being-- without letting it affect mine. 

Now I'm married to a wonderful man who is more like my father than I ever would have imagined.  Of course, there are things that are very right about that.  There are others that make my mother laugh and make me question the wisdom of my choice.  If Daniel is in a great mood, we all are.  If his mood is sour, mine will be too.  I take it personally.  I cannot understand why I do this.  To his credit, when I am in the middle of one of my not-so-infrequent "dark moments," he never does this.  He never assumes my displeasure, and is routinely sweet to me, even while I take out my irritation on him.  But I feel like I have to fix it, making him offers in an effort to help.  When that doesn't work, I get annoyed.  I challenge him, as if he's not supposed to feel whatever way he feels.  It's terribly selfish of me, actually.  It's not that I want him to feel better, it's that I want to feel better. And since I can't seem to be responsible for my own emotions in this case, that requires that he feel better too.

I used to say I wouldn't let this happen-- that I would set an example for my children and would not allow anyone to impose negativity on the rest of the family.  As it turns out, I'm the one perpetuating it. He's brooding lately, through no fault of my own, over stress at work and uncertainty in our personal life.  It's all completely warranted.  I've offered tea and a listening ear, time alone-- whatever he needed.  It didn't work.  I started troubleshooting, which pretty much never works. I need to learn to let it be without letting it be mine.

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    About Me

    Christina | Virginia Beach
    Psuedo Yankee, city-loving former working mom of four finds herself home with the kids and transplanted to the somewhat Southern suburbs. Finding her feet while still attempting to harness the power of the passion of her youth for useful good.

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