I'll admit it, I haven't read the piece in the Atlantic. I've seen some tweets. Read a few commentaries about the piece. Seen some folks post it on Facebook. But I haven't read it. I'm not sure that I will. Do I need one more person expounding on whether what I'm doing is right/wrong/indifferent/feminist/anti-feminist/social commentary/entitled?
Nope.
During the past year of this part-time, flexible working arrangement, I've come to believe that balance is a dirty word. It's a misleading concept to mothers who are busting their butts at work, child rearing, love and life.
Can you ever find true balance? I don't know. Maybe you can. And good for you. Truly. But for me, I don't know that I want balance. I struggle each day to find presence. When I'm working, I truly enjoy it and tackle the challenge at hand. When I'm with the kids, I love being mom. The difficulty is getting the work voice out of my head when I'm with the kids, and vice versa.
So, debating whether we can have it all seems kind of pointless. We already do "have it all," don't we? Many of us have jobs and kids and relationships and... It's what we do with it "all" that determines whether we are happy. The fact of the matter is that what I do with it and what you might do with it could be two totally different things and yet each might make us happy.
For me, there isn't balance and I don't strive for it. I'm constantly on a see-saw. Sometimes I'm working, sometimes I'm with the kids. You can't see without the saw. Luckily, for me, the ride is what makes it so rewarding. There is nothing less fun than a balanced see-saw, is there? Just staring at your counterpart, wishing someone could tip the scales to send you up into the sky or back down to earth.
If balance works for you, great. But I don't need someone else to tell me what the right balance is. I like my see-saw life for now. In those moments when I pass through the balance point on the way up and down, I shall acknowledge them with a nod knowing they may be fleeting, but understanding that I will see them again.
And that the journey getting to them is more exciting than just sitting still.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Rites of Passage
There was a time in my pre-kids life that I blatantly scoffed at the idea of preschool graduations. How silly these little ceremonies. Congrats, kid, you can say your ABCs and identify colors. You've really achieved something.
Perhaps that was just my own insecurity that I never had attended preschool and therefore possessed no pictures of myself in a tiny cap and gown. Perhaps I thought it was just another way we, as Americans, were unnecessarily praising the next generation. Or maybe, just maybe, I was full of crap.
What? A person admitting that kids changes their perspective? Yup. Shocking, I know.
I am sure there are still quite a few out there who still scoff and drip sarcasm at the idea of a preschool commencement, but I'm not one of them. I am a preschool graduation convert.
The 5 year old graduated from preschool today. The preschool he has spent the last three years finger painting and singing and learning about books and navigating new friendships in. As the day approached, I was finding myself quite emotional about it. Not his leaving preschool, necessarily. After all, the 2 year old will be there next year singing the same songs, his art adorning the same halls and letting butterflies loose in the same playground. But rather, I was emotional at all this step represented. Not all he had learned or accomplished or done. But all that he will learn, accomplish and do.
Today marks the beginning of his real academic journey. I have nurtured and cared and hugged and played Chutes and Ladders and taken him on this infant to toddler to preschooler journey and now it's time for me to let him go. It's time to test the skills the hubby and I (and his preschool teachers) have taught him. It's time for him to make decisions about who he sits with at lunch and how he will conduct himself in a classroom. I have done everything I can do to prepare him and now it's time to let him go.
On August 6, he will step onto a new path.
Of course, he's not leaving home and my influence and guidance will help him navigate the life lessons he still has to learn, because at age 5 he certainly hasn't seen the real challenges life has to offer. But today, I can celebrate how he can read and think and question and joke. Concepts that, considering 5 years ago he couldn't walk or talk and only had two teeth, are pretty monumental.
And that is worth celebrating.
Perhaps that was just my own insecurity that I never had attended preschool and therefore possessed no pictures of myself in a tiny cap and gown. Perhaps I thought it was just another way we, as Americans, were unnecessarily praising the next generation. Or maybe, just maybe, I was full of crap.
What? A person admitting that kids changes their perspective? Yup. Shocking, I know.
I am sure there are still quite a few out there who still scoff and drip sarcasm at the idea of a preschool commencement, but I'm not one of them. I am a preschool graduation convert.
The 5 year old graduated from preschool today. The preschool he has spent the last three years finger painting and singing and learning about books and navigating new friendships in. As the day approached, I was finding myself quite emotional about it. Not his leaving preschool, necessarily. After all, the 2 year old will be there next year singing the same songs, his art adorning the same halls and letting butterflies loose in the same playground. But rather, I was emotional at all this step represented. Not all he had learned or accomplished or done. But all that he will learn, accomplish and do.
Today marks the beginning of his real academic journey. I have nurtured and cared and hugged and played Chutes and Ladders and taken him on this infant to toddler to preschooler journey and now it's time for me to let him go. It's time to test the skills the hubby and I (and his preschool teachers) have taught him. It's time for him to make decisions about who he sits with at lunch and how he will conduct himself in a classroom. I have done everything I can do to prepare him and now it's time to let him go.
On August 6, he will step onto a new path.
Of course, he's not leaving home and my influence and guidance will help him navigate the life lessons he still has to learn, because at age 5 he certainly hasn't seen the real challenges life has to offer. But today, I can celebrate how he can read and think and question and joke. Concepts that, considering 5 years ago he couldn't walk or talk and only had two teeth, are pretty monumental.
And that is worth celebrating.
Monday, April 16, 2012
The Ties that Bind
When I was pregnant, I day dreamed of all the things I was going to teach my child. These were hazy day dreams filled with non specifics, but moments of wistful promise punctuated by kicking feet against my ribs that made me giddy with anticipation of all that I could be as a mother.
I soon realized that, in the beginning, there is very little mother-to-child teaching going on and much more child-to-mother rearing. I was the one, in those early days, taking part in sleep training soon waking after four hours in anticipation of nightly feedings. My little one taught me his cries for hunger, stimulation, overstimulation, a new diaper, snuggles. I soon learned to accomplish most physical tasks, like making dinner or sorting laundry or typing an email, with one hand. On top of it all, my little one taught me to love in a way that I never anticipated. He showed me pure joy. And eventually, he taught me to trust myself, my mother self.
That first year, I watched as he discovered and perfected rolling over, sitting up, crawling, walking, talking. There was very little I actually taught him. How can you teach a baby to roll over? They simply take their time practicing it until one day there they are, on their bellies so excited that they commanded their bodies to do something. Then of course, they realize they are in fact on their bellies and can't quite command themselves to turn back over and so the learning process begins anew.
Even as a preschooler, my little guy would dictate the pace of learning by one day being obsessed with letters or trucks or planets. I watched as his sponge brain soaked up all the information it could handle turning him into the inquisitive, hilarious, bright little boy that he is. But I never felt comfortable taking credit for any of it. I simply answered some questions along the way, provided a few factoids, maybe a helpful analogy.
Until recently. My five year old has learned to tie his shoes. I, his mother, little ole me, taught him that. I showed him how to make the "x" and curve the bow and push it through. I patiently encouraged him to practice and talked him through his frustration at not mastering the skill the first time he tried. And now he can tie his shoes. All by himself. Sure, they're too loose and they come undone easily, but he bends down to retie them now himself instead of shoving a foot under my nose to fix.
I did that. I taught him something. Something tangible. Something that he'll take with him forever.
I hope that I'm also teaching him the less tangibles - compassion, love, empathy.
But for now, I taught him to tie his shoes. And I feel pretty good about that.
I soon realized that, in the beginning, there is very little mother-to-child teaching going on and much more child-to-mother rearing. I was the one, in those early days, taking part in sleep training soon waking after four hours in anticipation of nightly feedings. My little one taught me his cries for hunger, stimulation, overstimulation, a new diaper, snuggles. I soon learned to accomplish most physical tasks, like making dinner or sorting laundry or typing an email, with one hand. On top of it all, my little one taught me to love in a way that I never anticipated. He showed me pure joy. And eventually, he taught me to trust myself, my mother self.
That first year, I watched as he discovered and perfected rolling over, sitting up, crawling, walking, talking. There was very little I actually taught him. How can you teach a baby to roll over? They simply take their time practicing it until one day there they are, on their bellies so excited that they commanded their bodies to do something. Then of course, they realize they are in fact on their bellies and can't quite command themselves to turn back over and so the learning process begins anew.
Even as a preschooler, my little guy would dictate the pace of learning by one day being obsessed with letters or trucks or planets. I watched as his sponge brain soaked up all the information it could handle turning him into the inquisitive, hilarious, bright little boy that he is. But I never felt comfortable taking credit for any of it. I simply answered some questions along the way, provided a few factoids, maybe a helpful analogy.
Until recently. My five year old has learned to tie his shoes. I, his mother, little ole me, taught him that. I showed him how to make the "x" and curve the bow and push it through. I patiently encouraged him to practice and talked him through his frustration at not mastering the skill the first time he tried. And now he can tie his shoes. All by himself. Sure, they're too loose and they come undone easily, but he bends down to retie them now himself instead of shoving a foot under my nose to fix.
I did that. I taught him something. Something tangible. Something that he'll take with him forever.
I hope that I'm also teaching him the less tangibles - compassion, love, empathy.
But for now, I taught him to tie his shoes. And I feel pretty good about that.
Monday, March 26, 2012
The Strength of a Mother
When I was first pregnant, I worried I wouldn't be able to handle the icky factor of parenting. The diapers. The snot. The vomit. The blood.
I found I was quickly desensitized. The serious injuries tend to keep me focused - assess the damage, stop the bleeding, make the trip to the children's ER for stitches. I am always surprised at how calm I am in those situations. The moments after, not so much, but when action needs to be taken, I have been able to take it.
Even the gross stuff is dealt with quickly. After a recent temper tantrum gone too long resulted in me wearing my two-year old's just consumed dinner, the hubby and I had the clothes in the wash, sheets changed, kid in the tub, clean jammies on, Resolve on the carpet, extra squirt of Purell on the hands and Lysol sprayed on all surfaces all within a matter of 15 minutes so I could get back to calming the little guy with a story.
I have faith that a mother is as strong as she needs to be. My sister recently had to spend a scary trip to the emergency room and night in the hospital with her 10 month old with RSV. Although I know she was scared and terrified of the what ifs, she was strong for her little one. She fought alongside her and cared for her until that baby was quickly cruising between the sofa and the coffee table again, that long night now just another battle scar of motherhood.
And then I marvel at another mother I know. A mom who found out her two year old son had brain cancer and comforted him through surgery and chemo and an uncertain future all while being pregnant with her daughter. I rejoiced when he was declared cancer free. I high-fived him at our college's homecoming and smiled as our two boys struck up the instant friendship that five year olds do. I crossed my fingers each time she'd bring him back for a follow-up MRI, exhaling at each clear result. And then, this time. It wasn't clear.
Today, she is living through the nightmare again. A surgeon has gone into her son's brain for a second time to remove another mass, similar to the first. I can't imagine what must be running through her head about next steps, treatments, logistics of care, missing school, explaining things to a child who now understands so much more at 5 and a half. And yet I can imagine what is going through her mind. According to her updates today, she's holding his hand. She's made sure he's in his Star Wars pajamas. She's stroking, hugging and praying. She's doing what a mother does.
She's being strong.
And in those moments when she is given an opportunity to rest and be weak and cry and rage and worry, I hope she feels the strength of all the rest of us mother's here to help carry her load. Because the sum of all the super heroes and weightlifters and soldiers in the world can't hold a candle to the strength of a mother.
I found I was quickly desensitized. The serious injuries tend to keep me focused - assess the damage, stop the bleeding, make the trip to the children's ER for stitches. I am always surprised at how calm I am in those situations. The moments after, not so much, but when action needs to be taken, I have been able to take it.
Even the gross stuff is dealt with quickly. After a recent temper tantrum gone too long resulted in me wearing my two-year old's just consumed dinner, the hubby and I had the clothes in the wash, sheets changed, kid in the tub, clean jammies on, Resolve on the carpet, extra squirt of Purell on the hands and Lysol sprayed on all surfaces all within a matter of 15 minutes so I could get back to calming the little guy with a story.
I have faith that a mother is as strong as she needs to be. My sister recently had to spend a scary trip to the emergency room and night in the hospital with her 10 month old with RSV. Although I know she was scared and terrified of the what ifs, she was strong for her little one. She fought alongside her and cared for her until that baby was quickly cruising between the sofa and the coffee table again, that long night now just another battle scar of motherhood.
And then I marvel at another mother I know. A mom who found out her two year old son had brain cancer and comforted him through surgery and chemo and an uncertain future all while being pregnant with her daughter. I rejoiced when he was declared cancer free. I high-fived him at our college's homecoming and smiled as our two boys struck up the instant friendship that five year olds do. I crossed my fingers each time she'd bring him back for a follow-up MRI, exhaling at each clear result. And then, this time. It wasn't clear.
Today, she is living through the nightmare again. A surgeon has gone into her son's brain for a second time to remove another mass, similar to the first. I can't imagine what must be running through her head about next steps, treatments, logistics of care, missing school, explaining things to a child who now understands so much more at 5 and a half. And yet I can imagine what is going through her mind. According to her updates today, she's holding his hand. She's made sure he's in his Star Wars pajamas. She's stroking, hugging and praying. She's doing what a mother does.
She's being strong.
And in those moments when she is given an opportunity to rest and be weak and cry and rage and worry, I hope she feels the strength of all the rest of us mother's here to help carry her load. Because the sum of all the super heroes and weightlifters and soldiers in the world can't hold a candle to the strength of a mother.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Here
Where to even start.
It's been more than a month since I've been in this space. Since I've stared down the blinking cursor. Since I've felt the tingle of something to say in my finger tips. Even now, I'm not sure what I want to share, tell, say. There are a number of things bouncing in my brain, a cacophony of to-do lists, observations, worries.
Typically, to silence the noise, I take a deep breath and pluck something to pour onto the page and watch as the burden lifts with each sentence or clarity makes its way out of the paragraphs or I simply enjoy the left to right motion of my thoughts finding their way outside of myself.
For some reason, taking a deep breath hasn't been working. The thoughts are stuck. The page hasn't been beckoning. And I miss it.
I'm not sure if it's work. The fact that I'm creating, arranging commas and otherwise filling blank pages and just don't have anything left. I don't know if it's the stage my kids seem to be in that leaves me exhausted after asking, asking, asking... I'm not sure if it's winter, writer's block, a hangnail.
Excuses. All of it. Today, with the sun shining through the window, the laundry begging to be folded, Bravo tempting me on the sofa, the hubby out with the boys, I am here. I might not know what to say, where it's going, how to solve the problems, but I am present. I am at the page.
And that is a small victory.
It's been more than a month since I've been in this space. Since I've stared down the blinking cursor. Since I've felt the tingle of something to say in my finger tips. Even now, I'm not sure what I want to share, tell, say. There are a number of things bouncing in my brain, a cacophony of to-do lists, observations, worries.
Typically, to silence the noise, I take a deep breath and pluck something to pour onto the page and watch as the burden lifts with each sentence or clarity makes its way out of the paragraphs or I simply enjoy the left to right motion of my thoughts finding their way outside of myself.
For some reason, taking a deep breath hasn't been working. The thoughts are stuck. The page hasn't been beckoning. And I miss it.
I'm not sure if it's work. The fact that I'm creating, arranging commas and otherwise filling blank pages and just don't have anything left. I don't know if it's the stage my kids seem to be in that leaves me exhausted after asking, asking, asking... I'm not sure if it's winter, writer's block, a hangnail.
Excuses. All of it. Today, with the sun shining through the window, the laundry begging to be folded, Bravo tempting me on the sofa, the hubby out with the boys, I am here. I might not know what to say, where it's going, how to solve the problems, but I am present. I am at the page.
And that is a small victory.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Being Flexible with my Flex Schedule
I had a light bulb moment this week. Perhaps the reason why "flex scheduling" isn't more readily embraced by the corporate community is that employers aren't sure they can, in fact, be flexible. They may feel that the burden will fall on them.
The fact of the matter is, my current employers have asked, simply, that a certain level of work be completed. Other than perhaps understanding that my best days for meetings are Mondays and Wednesdays, the reality is that, as long as I deliver, they're pretty much fine. Sure, some employers may balk at employees working out of sight for fear that they can't supervise or offer input. And some jobs certainly can't be terribly flexible (a chef or a doctor can't work from home the way an accountant or a PR pro can). But for many companies, does it really matter whether you finish that report in an office or at your kitchen table as long as it is still quality work?
My personal light bulb went on earlier this week when I realized flex scheduling is less about my employer being flexible (although, obviously the fact that I have this arrangement indicates that yes they are) and more about me being flexible. I plan my work around the two days both kids are in school, around typical nap/quiet times, around evenings or early mornings. But then, inevitably, something will happen. A colleague will have a request that might need to be met on a timeline that doesn't fit the mental parameters I have anticipated for a day. Or that early morning I was planning on is traded in for a snooze button after being up for two hours in the middle of the night with an inconsolable toddler. Or in order to make a crucial meeting happen, I need to suck it up and find a babysitter.
Strangely, the hardest part of my flex schedule is being flexible with myself. Letting it go until the next day so I can get to bed early or postponing that revision because the toddler decided to skip a nap or buckling down for several hours of work on a weekend when the hubby takes the kids on an outing are all part of me rolling with the punches. The press release doesn't know the difference. The research still gets done. The plans still get written.
As long as I can be flexible with my own expectations, this flex schedule thing may just work out.
The fact of the matter is, my current employers have asked, simply, that a certain level of work be completed. Other than perhaps understanding that my best days for meetings are Mondays and Wednesdays, the reality is that, as long as I deliver, they're pretty much fine. Sure, some employers may balk at employees working out of sight for fear that they can't supervise or offer input. And some jobs certainly can't be terribly flexible (a chef or a doctor can't work from home the way an accountant or a PR pro can). But for many companies, does it really matter whether you finish that report in an office or at your kitchen table as long as it is still quality work?
My personal light bulb went on earlier this week when I realized flex scheduling is less about my employer being flexible (although, obviously the fact that I have this arrangement indicates that yes they are) and more about me being flexible. I plan my work around the two days both kids are in school, around typical nap/quiet times, around evenings or early mornings. But then, inevitably, something will happen. A colleague will have a request that might need to be met on a timeline that doesn't fit the mental parameters I have anticipated for a day. Or that early morning I was planning on is traded in for a snooze button after being up for two hours in the middle of the night with an inconsolable toddler. Or in order to make a crucial meeting happen, I need to suck it up and find a babysitter.
Strangely, the hardest part of my flex schedule is being flexible with myself. Letting it go until the next day so I can get to bed early or postponing that revision because the toddler decided to skip a nap or buckling down for several hours of work on a weekend when the hubby takes the kids on an outing are all part of me rolling with the punches. The press release doesn't know the difference. The research still gets done. The plans still get written.
As long as I can be flexible with my own expectations, this flex schedule thing may just work out.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Mommy's Jobs
I'm only in the office two mornings a week. The rest of the week, I'm balancing work during the boys' nap/TV time, post bedtime, and weekend outings with daddy. When I pack up my laptop and head out for car pool pickups on office days, the office manager typically says goodbye with a "Have fun at your real job."
And that's certainly how it feels. I definitely bill more hours to the mommy job than the other. Each has its own uniform with a nice Mr. Rogers-like transition when I come home replacing the skirts with jeans and the heels with slippers. Each has its own compartment in my brain and color on my iCal. Both are relieved with a glass of wine and a good book.
I took a little time off from the hustle and bustle around the holidays and put work away for a bit. When I came back, ready to tackle the scheduling and the balancing act again, I decided to approach it a bit differently. To mentally stop trying to balance a see-saw that defies all rules of physics to begin with. To approach each day with a unique task to accomplish. To only judge my performance on that one task whether that day's focus is bringing snack to my son's preschool class or developing an outreach plan. To try not to say "in a minute" to my kids when I'm trying to finish an email/press release/dinner.
The last has been the toughest. Inevitably, the boys are done with naps/videos/Legos five minutes before I'm done with whatever task I'm trying to accomplish. I want them to know that mommy works and that what mommy does is important but that they will always be the most important job mommy has.
At dinner recently, the five year old was asking the hubby to stay home from now on and mommy could go to work (the boys enjoyed the extra time the hubby was around over the holidays burning some saved up PTO). I explained that mommy already goes to work, just while they are at school. I thought I could use the opening as an opportunity to explain a little bit more about what mommy does. And so I asked him, "Do you know what mommy's job is when she's not home taking care of you?"
His response, "Loving me?"
It's good to know that he understands my real job.
And that's certainly how it feels. I definitely bill more hours to the mommy job than the other. Each has its own uniform with a nice Mr. Rogers-like transition when I come home replacing the skirts with jeans and the heels with slippers. Each has its own compartment in my brain and color on my iCal. Both are relieved with a glass of wine and a good book.
I took a little time off from the hustle and bustle around the holidays and put work away for a bit. When I came back, ready to tackle the scheduling and the balancing act again, I decided to approach it a bit differently. To mentally stop trying to balance a see-saw that defies all rules of physics to begin with. To approach each day with a unique task to accomplish. To only judge my performance on that one task whether that day's focus is bringing snack to my son's preschool class or developing an outreach plan. To try not to say "in a minute" to my kids when I'm trying to finish an email/press release/dinner.
The last has been the toughest. Inevitably, the boys are done with naps/videos/Legos five minutes before I'm done with whatever task I'm trying to accomplish. I want them to know that mommy works and that what mommy does is important but that they will always be the most important job mommy has.
At dinner recently, the five year old was asking the hubby to stay home from now on and mommy could go to work (the boys enjoyed the extra time the hubby was around over the holidays burning some saved up PTO). I explained that mommy already goes to work, just while they are at school. I thought I could use the opening as an opportunity to explain a little bit more about what mommy does. And so I asked him, "Do you know what mommy's job is when she's not home taking care of you?"
His response, "Loving me?"
It's good to know that he understands my real job.
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