Somewhere in between

There are moments during the day when I feel pure joy--contentment and satisfaction with where I am, what I’m doing, the choices I’ve made. Then there are other moments when I feel sheer terror--uncertainty, disappointment, and failure.

But most of the time, I feel stuck somewhere in the middle: the quintessential “part-time working mom,” a mix of both working and staying home, the “best” of both of the crazy worlds I’ve wrapped myself in.

It’s an interesting experience, living in both worlds. As I walk down the street on my way to work, in my pressed pants and pointy fashion shoes, I think the moms passing by me with their strollers have no idea that I, too, have been pregnant; I, too, have been in labor; I have agonized over breast or bottle feeding; Ferberizing or attachment parenting; which formula to choose; daycare; Stride Rite or Payless; and the list goes on and on. On the glorious days I am not at work, when I too have the option to walk leisurely down the street with my extraordinary son in his stroller, I see the business women, refusing to move aside on the narrow sidewalk so I can pass through, and I know they have no idea--no idea that I’ve been a college student; a journalist, an account executive.

When I am at work, I feel as if I have no connection with motherhood; when I am pushing a stroller, businesswomen look at me with disdain. We judge each other with one glance, not knowing at all what our lives are like.

At work, I’m surrounded by so many different types of people: overachievers; people who have been there too long and know too much; people who know nothing; people who are on my side; and people who are not. But I have not met anyone who understands what I’m going through, who can offer support--who can say, “hey, you know what? I’ve been there.”

At home, I have my amazing two year old son, who delights and surprises me every day with what he’s learned, with his hugs, his love for books and Dora the Explorer, and his obsession with cars, trucks, diggers, and anything that makes loud and obnoxious noise. He sits and watches baseball with my husband as if he understands what’s going on, and he watches me cook with such an intense curiosity that at moments I am sure he’ll grow up to be a chef.

Someone once told me that becoming a mother means resigning yourself over to a life of guilt. Over my first tumultuous and eye-opening year of being a parent, I have yet to hear a more accurate statement.

I went back to work as a retail manager full time after six months at home with Alex. Guilty was a word that defined me then. I felt guilty for working; guilty for accruing so much debt over the years that I had no choice but to work, full time; guilty for leaving my child in someone else’s care; guilty for checking my email when I could have been reading to my son. I didn’t have time to use the bathroom, shave my legs, or cook. Making the bed meant I couldn’t blow dry my hair that day. My husband and I went days at a time with no eye contact.

Now, a part-time employee and mostly full-time mother, I’ve had to give up my normal “all or nothing” way of life. I may have time to cook a gourmet meal, but if I’m working the next day, clean-up falls behind. I drive myself insane, hand making invitations to parties and thank you notes two days after. I still can’t find time to shave my legs. I bake cakes and cookies from scratch, host Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, and Easter.

I haven’t shaved my legs in two weeks.

I’ve had to really step down at work. I still enjoy what I do, gratefully--and my company’s flexibility has allowed me to create a schedule that I can be comfortable with. But I have those moments, where I’m listening to someone explain something to me as if I’m an imbecile, and I want to scream, “Hey, I get it! I had a baby, not a lobotomy!” I have a certain amount of responsibility, but I am not allowed to step over that--if I do, I am promptly reminded of my new role. I am still a manager in many respects, but have lost my place. My traumatic birth experience and the aftermath means nothing to my co-workers--and why should it? To them, women give birth every day--to me, giving birth to my son was nothing short of a miracle.

Seeing my recent dramatic weight loss, no asks me what it was like those first few weeks after the birth, when looking at my sagging, deflated body in the mirror, I sobbed as I thought that I would never be the same again, my body would never bounce back. I hid my pre-pregnancy clothes deep in my closet, certain that they would never again see the light of day.

Now I look at myself and can’t believe that I was ever pregnant, and nine months pregnant at that. I yearn to conceive again, to have that special, miraculous secret that after a few precious weeks grows into a very visible and very real pregnancy that everyone wants to share. I ache to feel the kicks and hiccups in my belly, reminding me of the unbelievable fact that I am carrying another human being in my body.

Often, I look at my baby and think I want ten more. Then I ease into my size four jeans and guiltily think that I cannot ever imagine gaining 40 pounds again, for anyone.

I don't get to enjoy the title of “stay at home mom.” I don't belong to any Mommy and Me groups, don't go to Gymboree, don't hold any scrapbooking parties (even though I’d love to do all those things!). My paycheck has been cut down by more than half, my work responsibilities falling into an indescribable gray area, a lot of our financial freedom gone.

And so, I am caught in the inevitable tug of war, not one or the other, but somewhere in between. There are many times, like while I’m getting yelled at by the 15th customer that hour or while I’m dealing with yet another co-worker I never want to see again, that I wish I could bury my face in my son’s hair, smelling his sweet smell, or that I could see his precious face peek out over the top of his crib, his nap done. I never wish I were at work when I’m at home. Ever. The things I enjoy about working have nothing to do with the work itself--rather, I enjoy getting to dress up, and the 10-minute walk to the train, the only time during any day that I am truly alone.

I really don’t need to work to feel a sense of accomplishment--I get that from my hobbies: photography, writing, scrapbooking, cooking. I feel accomplished when I look at my son, when my husband comes home to a clean place and dinner cooking on the stove; when he tells me that he’ll support me and we’ll find a way no matter what I want to do--the choice is mine. I never take for granted how lucky I am to have a husband like that--and know there are many women who do not enjoy that luxury.

I’d like to have two more children and stay home full time. But for now, I’m here: employee sometimes, mother and wife always, myself never. I grab on to those moments when everything feels perfect and hold on tight, arranging them in my mind like a scrapbook page.

Maybe life is just a balancing act. Maybe there are women like me everywhere, walking the tight rope, never finished, never complete. We are all just members of the same circus, juggling, balancing, and sometimes falling. But when I pick my son up and he says “Mommy, I love you,” when he lays his head on my shoulder and strokes my arm--then I'm just his mom: and then the tug of war ceases. And at that moment, I am exactly where I want to be.