parenting

Some of my most treasured memories from this stage of my sweet girl’s life will be of our nightly bedtime ritual. Each night, after she’s snug in her jammies, with all her lovies tucked into her arms, and her daddy has kissed her good night, she and I snuggle together on the rocking chair in her room. We talk about our day and all the things we did. We talk about whether it was a good day, or whether we hope tomorrow will be better. We talk about our plans for the days ahead and the people we’ll see. Or sometimes, we just sit quietly in each other’s company and enjoy the warmth of blankets and lovies and one another. It always ends the day on a positive note, no matter how badly things have gone, and I hope that we can continue this tradition in some form for a good long while.

Anyways, as we were snuggling tonight, she asked me to sing a song…

“Which song would you like me to sing?”

“The rainbow song, please.”

“Okay. The rainbow song it is.”

After finishing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” the room grows quiet. Then, a tiny whisper, “Mommy?”

“Yes, my sweet?”

“I like you.”

“I like you, too, love. I like you very, very much.”

So by now you know I have a daughter. But, here’s something I haven’t discussed here at One Shoe Off. I work, too. A so-called ‘real’ job (AS IF parenting somehow isn’t real work, but that’s another soapbox for another day). I work hard. But I work for an insanely wonderful, flexible company which shall, of course, remain nameless that is perfectly fine with me working from home. While I simultaneously parent my daughter. Can I just say how frickin’ awesome that is, and how unbelievably blessed I am to be able to do this and how unbelievably hard this whole thing is?

I have a tremendously supportive husband actively earning points toward sainthood who more than pulls his weight at home and at work so that we can make this happen. I put in a lot of hours while she sleeps. I put in some hours while she’s awake. And I struggle. I don’t struggle to keep my head above water as I’ve somehow mastered the delicate art of meeting deadlines while simultaneously singing the ABCs for the umpteenth time (thank you to many friends who have also chipped in when time was of the essence). Mainly, I struggle with the guilt of sometimes not being entirely present with my kidlet.

Some days are pretty relaxed, others cause me great stress and uncontrollable twitching. These past few days have been hard. The phone has been ringing incessantly, and the e-mails pour in at an alarming rate. Which means that some days my daughter has to spend more time playing by herself than I would like. Plenty of folks would argue that it’s good for her to learn to play on her own, and I would whole-heartedly agree. But when I’m in the throes of answering yet another phone call, while the other line is ringing, and my sweet girl is tugging on my pants asking me to read to her, I find myself feeling very sad indeed.

I enjoy my job immensely, and I have and always will care deeply about my own career and what I’ll be doing when my rapidly-growing girl starts school. This is part of why I chose to take on this insane juggling act in the first place. I also know that if I didn’t have this job and the mental overstimulation it provides, I would probably be even sadder still, and possibly a little bored. It’s not that I find childcare boring (although let’s all just admit it has its tedious moments), it’s simply that I’ve always been one to take on lots and lots and lots and lots of challenges and opportunities and find a way to tackle them all, sometimes quite unsuccessfully. This whole bizarre situation is a choice, I guess, about providing both my family and myself with things that we feel are important. I want my daughter to remember days at home with me the way I remember days at home with my own lovely mama. I also want very much to help provide my family with financial support because I’m capable and willing. I want also to keep myself sharp and current in my own career and to have opportunities to make important contributions outside of my home.

Some would argue that society is to blame for the stresses and pressures that many (all?) modern moms find themselves under. Sure, social mores have something to do with how I feel. If I don’t pursue my career, I’m not a good feminist who is using my education and skills to the best of my ability. If I don’t stay home with my kid, I’m somehow not doing right by my kid. You’re damned if you do, damned if you don’t. And yet, even despite society’s pressures, it’s my own ambitions, loves, prides, and insecurities that hold me perpetually out of balance.

I don’t for a moment regret the decisions we’ve made about this, and I know I’m not the first mom, nor will I be the last, to struggle constantly with pursuing that elusive thing we call “work-life balance.” I also don’t claim to have any answers here because my ducks aren’t lined up neatly in a row but rather scattered all to hell. But, hey, maybe my struggle can offer comfort to some other struggling mama out there. Or maybe we can all just commiserate together on how hard it can be to work, or how hard it can be to stay at home, or how hard it can be to do whatever it is each of us is doing out of the best interest of our families and our own mental health. Because that’s got to be better than the endless judgment that moms can dish out over other moms’ choices, right?

I’m interested to hear what your situation looks like. How do you find balance? Where do your struggles and guilt lie?

Lord help me, I need more sleep. As we were getting the wee child ready for bed tonight, she protested loudly as per her latest norm. My husband, being the kind, albeit somewhat naive, soul that he is suggested that sleeping would bring her to that much closer to ANOTHER! FUN! DAY! And I, being the sarcastic grouch that I am, and still reflecting on a long day full of telephone calls and toddler wrangling, said, and I quote:

“Yeah, another FUN day of mommy answering the F-H-O-N-E.”

We spell things out a lot around here these days. My husband gave pause, looked at me and said, “Answering the what?”

“The F-H-O-N-E. DUH. What the hell is your problem? Quit looking at me like that.”

Another knowing look. “Ummm….”

“F-H-O…Oh shit….Huh…Why did I leave the H in there?”

Clearly my Master’s degree in English was summarily wiped out the moment I gave birth and quit, you know, sleeping.

In a moment that I can only attribute to channeling my mother yesterday, I told my daughter that if she didn’t clean up her toys, I was going to throw them away or give them to needy kids who appreciated them. Um, yeah. She’s only 2 1/2, and it wasn’t my finest moment, but it’s one of those idle threats that my mom used to shoot off when I didn’t tidy up after myself (although in my mother’s case, it may not have been so idle). When I later told the husband what had happened, he looked at me like I had just announced that I wanted to go bathe in raw sewage. I said “Oh, c’mon, you know that standard parental threat! Didn’t your mom ever say that to you?!” His response, “Um, no. Never.” Aside from being a perfect explanation of the differences between my type-a anal retention and his blase attitude about everything, it raised a debate. IS that a standard parental threat? In my household, it most definitely was, but now I’m wondering if my parents were the exception rather than the norm. I’ve got that Chinese mother thing going on that ups the intensity factor of childhood, so maybe that’s where it came from. Did your parents threaten you with getting rid of whatever you didn’t clean up? Did it make you more neat or less so? And what other kinds of parental threats do you remember? Ah, nostalgia.

I never thought having a toddler would be so funny.  A few excerpts from recent conversations:

While riding over hills on our way to Amish country:

C: There’s roller-coasters in my belly!

Me: There are?

C: Yes!   There’s also rabbits in my belly!

Me: Rabbits?

C: Yes, and a mouse in my finger!

Me: …

—

Poppop (my dad) using a puppet (Green Frog) from my childhood to do a show for Charlotte.  Green Frog was talking to C., and C. was talking to Green Frog, not Poppop.

Green Frog: Oh, you like to go swimming?  I like to swim, too.  Can I go swimming with you?  (Or something to this effect).

C: No. You can’t.  You’re just a toy.

—

Me: C, your diaper leaked a little bit last night.  Your jammies are a bit wet.

C: Leaked?

Me: Yep, just a little.

C: Like the refrigerator leaked? (Our fridge was leaking a few weeks ago)

Me: Yes, just like the refrigerator leaked.  Less wet, though.