After two years working at a grocery store and five years working at a restaurant, I am well-versed in parenting in public. I've seen the scolding, the threatening, and even the public spankings. I've seen the hissy fits, the laughing fits, and the parents' fits. I've had four year olds tell me "Please" and "Thank you, Ma'am" for every motion I made, and I've also had four year-olds who threw themselves to the (questionably clean) ground because I wouldn't let them run my register. After twelve years of various stages of employment, I've learned the hard way how to maintain patience at work (for the most part), accept the crazy parenting methods of the world at large, and, of course, keep a surgical mask on hand for potential cleanup issues. Yet the real result of my many experiences is not my own expertise on working in public venues, but rather it is what not to do with my own child. Unfortunately for Ellie, my overly precautious parenting methods often mean she doesn't get to go anywhere at all. Allow me to defend myself.
I was fifteen years old when I began bagging groceries under the illustrious title of "Courtesy Clerk" at Fareway. For $5.50 an hour I bagged groceries, unloaded carts and loaded cars, and "faced" shelves by pulling all the products to the front. After two months of older customers snapping at me for not asking the tired-and-long-since-extinct question of "Paper or plastic?" and teenagers trying to "get to know me" so that I would vouch for their age at the tobacco counter, I was sure I would spend my adult years running a home-delivery business for groceries just to alleviate the pressures of the overworked and underpaid courtesy clerks. Then, of course, came the day I'll never forget: the Day the Toddlers Wouldn't Stop. It was amazing.
I had heard toddlers screaming in stores before, and I had seen countless kids come through the aisles, but once summer break hit I found myself working day shifts as early as 7am. I quickly learned that with the day shifts also comes the day customers, aka the day moms with their day kids and day frustrations. Lord help us all. (Side note: I am by no means suggesting that all daytime mothers and their children are like this, but the population is large and far-reaching. If you are taking offense already, this probably applies to you.) Cart after cart came through the aisles with screaming children, crying toddlers, and a whole hoarde of terrorizing tyke tyrants in between. There were some respectable moms who, upon seeing the imminence of midget mutiny, hurried back out of the store, reprimanded their children until they succombed to good behavior, or a combination of the two. Unfortunately for me and my fellow employees, these mothers were more the exception than the rule.
The most amazing part of this day, however, was not that these children were so awful, and it wasn't even that the mothers were so awful at handling their children. Instead, it was amazing to see the sense of entitlement that seaped through every person, patron, and parent. They not only allowed their children to behave in such uncontrollable fashions, but they walked along blithely as though no one else in the world was affected by their scenario. A few mothers even commented to each other on how they would only be in the store "a few minutes" so surely the employees could handle it (all the while failing to realize that each employee was treated to eight hours of tantrums that would only last "a few minutes," because just as one tantrum ended, a new child was sure to arrive with a new objection to be voiced to the world). After three months of bagging and an ill-fated return later in life to spend a year running a register, Fareway and its customers single-handedly cost my daughter nearly any chance she had of going to the grocery store.
I have similar stories to tell after working at a pizza place in a mall food court, but my best stories will come from years of waitressing at a steakhouse all too often treated as the angus answer to Chuck E. Cheese. Rest assured, more stories to follow. They will undoubtedly make you laugh, grimace, and reconsider ever eating in another public venue.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
A Tribute to My Best Friend
My best friend is an amazing man. He is loyal to a fault, protective to no end, and always there for me when I need him. He cuddles me while I sleep, and he always offers to go with me when I leave my house. He is a bit messy, and his hygiene habits leave something to be desired, but I still call him "Handsome" every single day. I remember the day he came into my life, and I will be devastated when he leaves me, but I know we will find each other again in Heaven. My best friend is exactly what I dreamed of when I was a little girl and he's everything I could hope for as an adult, and that is why he deserves this tribute. Here's to you, Rebel Lee Donels, you are the best friend, companion, and dog, and I am thankful for you everyday.
Rebel's life didn't start out so easy. He was born in an unknown location in Iowa, and he went to live with a family that had another black Lab, Bear. Bear was three years older than Rebel, but they grew very close over time. Their family didn't have any people kids, but Rebel and Bear loved their owners and that love was reciprocated. As the economy grew weaker, however, Rebel and Bear's parents lost their jobs, and soon their bills became too expensive. As a result, Rebel and Bear were turned over to an animal shelter. They were five and eight years old respectively.
At the shelter, the volunteers and coordinators encouraged people to consider adopting both dogs in order to keep them together, but that proved too much for the interested adoptive families, and Bear soon found a home. After four months, Rebel was transferred to a foster home where he lived for four weeks before I found him.
When Rebel and I first met, he could not have been less interested in me. He had a new field to explore, a tennis ball that was yet to be destructed, and the scent of many dogs who had come before him. His foster mom stayed as long as she could, but she soon told me I would have to take him and leave or she would not be able to give him up. I asked her then if she wanted to keep him, but she assured me she wanted to continue her work as a foster parent and could not have any more permanent dogs in the way. As we walked to my car, Rebel allowed me to take his leash without fuss and then leaped joyfully into my car. I took that as a sure sign of happiness to come, bid his foster mother goodbye, and went on my way with my new/old dog. I just knew we would be instant family. Needless to say, I was wrong.
Rebel chewed through two metal kennels, tore out a towel bar, ripped a door in half, dislodged four electrical outlets, and defecated across two hundred square feet of carpet. That was week one. I took Rebel to the vet to see what I could do differently and found myself returning to my home with my $10 dog and $200 in Prozac and anti-hysteria pills. We worked with Rebel as much as we could and after a while found ourselves settling in with our new family. We soon learned that we settled a little too quickly.
After four weeks of Prozac and other medications, Rebel seemed to find comfort in his new family as well, and he liked to stay close to us as we went about our days. In the evening we all sat together on our three seasons porch and played cards while Rebel and Emma continued their silent battle of who had the best sleeping spot beneath our chairs. As we settled for another rousing hand of Spite and Malice, Rebel began moving across the floor in what can only be described as a water-free doggy crawl. At first we laughed at this humorous new move we didn't know our dog was capable of making, but we soon realized he was moving without complete control of his body. We tried everything we could think of in talking to him, holding him, rubbing his ears to calm him, but nothing made a difference. Within minutes we were on our way to the emergency animal hospital.
It would be impossible for me to recreate the events of that night, but I relived them again the first time I took my daughter to the emergency room. Rebel shook helplessly, panicking when aware and vomiting when he wasn't, but there was nothing we could do. We watched as the vet injected him again and again with medicines designed to overtake the seizure and help him relax, but nothing seemed to work. The doctor explained that Rebel had either a brain tumor or epilepsy, but the only thing that mattered in the moment was gaining control of his seizure. After three hours, the vet reached what he called his last chance shot. If this drug did not put Rebel to sleep and put an end to the seizure, he would have to put Rebel to sleep forever. The drug worked, and we were told to leave and return in the morning. We had known Rebel for four weeks at that point, and we were inconsolable.
Rebel's story and his chances improved dramatically the next day, and since that time Rebel has taken Phenobarbital twice a day everyday with extra pills on the days he has seizures. We will never know if his original family knew about his epilepsy, but we do know the shelter would have had him euthanized if they had known. This is not a sign of cruelty on their part, but rather it is the sad result of too many dogs with too little funding. Rebel's medicine is $15 per month, and that would have been too much for them.
So that was Rebel's beginning, and since then we have only grown closer. Rebel moved to New York with us, and he stayed with me when Tracey and Emma went to start our home in Texas. He continues to stay close to me at night when everyone else has gone to bed, and he barks and growls as necessary when new people arrive. He lays with me on the bed, and he is always ready for the next car ride. He listens to my secrets, and he saves his kisses for when I need them most. Rebel is truly the best friend I'll ever have. But he isn't perfect.
A tribute to Rebel would not be a proper tribute without the full story. Rebel barks. All the time. He has good instincts when it comes to remaining silent while Ellie sleeps, but he considers a phone in my hand as a personal invitation to commence barking again. He also eats a fortune in rawhides every month, and if I fail to supply him with rawhides with proper frequency, he will bark even more. He takes up too much space on the bed, and he finds a way to lay in exactly the right position to make sleep impossible for me. He doesn't jump on strangers, but he jumps on me (whether I want him to or not). He also likes to take himself for walks when an open door or gate presents itself, but he insists this is not the horrible fault I make it out to be because he always comes home. He has Big Black Dog Syndrome, also known as the ability to scare people based entirely on his appearance, but he doesn't care.
He doesn't care about scaring people because Rebel is not a People-Pleaser in the traditional sense of most labs. Most labs are known for wanting little more than making their people happy. They have held the title of the most popular breed in America for twenty years running, and they are the most likely breed to be adopted from shelters and rescue groups. They work as service dogs and as therapy companions, and yet Rebel is not concerned with any of this. He doesn't care about making friends with new people in my house, and he doesn't care about working or cooperating any more than absolutely necessary.
Instead, Rebel has one concern, and he takes it very seriously. Rebel will get up in the middle of the night, stop in the middle of a meal, and give up a great game of tug-of-war in order to take care of his one responsibility, self-designated though it may be. That is, Rebel would do anything for me. I'm his best friend, and he is mine, and that is how it forever will be. So this is my tribute to you, Rebel Lee Donels, best friend and black lab extraordinaire. You are twelve years old now, and I know you can't be with me forever in the physical sense, but you will always be my very best friend.
Rebel's life didn't start out so easy. He was born in an unknown location in Iowa, and he went to live with a family that had another black Lab, Bear. Bear was three years older than Rebel, but they grew very close over time. Their family didn't have any people kids, but Rebel and Bear loved their owners and that love was reciprocated. As the economy grew weaker, however, Rebel and Bear's parents lost their jobs, and soon their bills became too expensive. As a result, Rebel and Bear were turned over to an animal shelter. They were five and eight years old respectively.
At the shelter, the volunteers and coordinators encouraged people to consider adopting both dogs in order to keep them together, but that proved too much for the interested adoptive families, and Bear soon found a home. After four months, Rebel was transferred to a foster home where he lived for four weeks before I found him.
When Rebel and I first met, he could not have been less interested in me. He had a new field to explore, a tennis ball that was yet to be destructed, and the scent of many dogs who had come before him. His foster mom stayed as long as she could, but she soon told me I would have to take him and leave or she would not be able to give him up. I asked her then if she wanted to keep him, but she assured me she wanted to continue her work as a foster parent and could not have any more permanent dogs in the way. As we walked to my car, Rebel allowed me to take his leash without fuss and then leaped joyfully into my car. I took that as a sure sign of happiness to come, bid his foster mother goodbye, and went on my way with my new/old dog. I just knew we would be instant family. Needless to say, I was wrong.
Rebel chewed through two metal kennels, tore out a towel bar, ripped a door in half, dislodged four electrical outlets, and defecated across two hundred square feet of carpet. That was week one. I took Rebel to the vet to see what I could do differently and found myself returning to my home with my $10 dog and $200 in Prozac and anti-hysteria pills. We worked with Rebel as much as we could and after a while found ourselves settling in with our new family. We soon learned that we settled a little too quickly.
After four weeks of Prozac and other medications, Rebel seemed to find comfort in his new family as well, and he liked to stay close to us as we went about our days. In the evening we all sat together on our three seasons porch and played cards while Rebel and Emma continued their silent battle of who had the best sleeping spot beneath our chairs. As we settled for another rousing hand of Spite and Malice, Rebel began moving across the floor in what can only be described as a water-free doggy crawl. At first we laughed at this humorous new move we didn't know our dog was capable of making, but we soon realized he was moving without complete control of his body. We tried everything we could think of in talking to him, holding him, rubbing his ears to calm him, but nothing made a difference. Within minutes we were on our way to the emergency animal hospital.
It would be impossible for me to recreate the events of that night, but I relived them again the first time I took my daughter to the emergency room. Rebel shook helplessly, panicking when aware and vomiting when he wasn't, but there was nothing we could do. We watched as the vet injected him again and again with medicines designed to overtake the seizure and help him relax, but nothing seemed to work. The doctor explained that Rebel had either a brain tumor or epilepsy, but the only thing that mattered in the moment was gaining control of his seizure. After three hours, the vet reached what he called his last chance shot. If this drug did not put Rebel to sleep and put an end to the seizure, he would have to put Rebel to sleep forever. The drug worked, and we were told to leave and return in the morning. We had known Rebel for four weeks at that point, and we were inconsolable.
Rebel's story and his chances improved dramatically the next day, and since that time Rebel has taken Phenobarbital twice a day everyday with extra pills on the days he has seizures. We will never know if his original family knew about his epilepsy, but we do know the shelter would have had him euthanized if they had known. This is not a sign of cruelty on their part, but rather it is the sad result of too many dogs with too little funding. Rebel's medicine is $15 per month, and that would have been too much for them.
So that was Rebel's beginning, and since then we have only grown closer. Rebel moved to New York with us, and he stayed with me when Tracey and Emma went to start our home in Texas. He continues to stay close to me at night when everyone else has gone to bed, and he barks and growls as necessary when new people arrive. He lays with me on the bed, and he is always ready for the next car ride. He listens to my secrets, and he saves his kisses for when I need them most. Rebel is truly the best friend I'll ever have. But he isn't perfect.
A tribute to Rebel would not be a proper tribute without the full story. Rebel barks. All the time. He has good instincts when it comes to remaining silent while Ellie sleeps, but he considers a phone in my hand as a personal invitation to commence barking again. He also eats a fortune in rawhides every month, and if I fail to supply him with rawhides with proper frequency, he will bark even more. He takes up too much space on the bed, and he finds a way to lay in exactly the right position to make sleep impossible for me. He doesn't jump on strangers, but he jumps on me (whether I want him to or not). He also likes to take himself for walks when an open door or gate presents itself, but he insists this is not the horrible fault I make it out to be because he always comes home. He has Big Black Dog Syndrome, also known as the ability to scare people based entirely on his appearance, but he doesn't care.
He doesn't care about scaring people because Rebel is not a People-Pleaser in the traditional sense of most labs. Most labs are known for wanting little more than making their people happy. They have held the title of the most popular breed in America for twenty years running, and they are the most likely breed to be adopted from shelters and rescue groups. They work as service dogs and as therapy companions, and yet Rebel is not concerned with any of this. He doesn't care about making friends with new people in my house, and he doesn't care about working or cooperating any more than absolutely necessary.
Instead, Rebel has one concern, and he takes it very seriously. Rebel will get up in the middle of the night, stop in the middle of a meal, and give up a great game of tug-of-war in order to take care of his one responsibility, self-designated though it may be. That is, Rebel would do anything for me. I'm his best friend, and he is mine, and that is how it forever will be. So this is my tribute to you, Rebel Lee Donels, best friend and black lab extraordinaire. You are twelve years old now, and I know you can't be with me forever in the physical sense, but you will always be my very best friend.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Realty Reality
I hate real estate. Actually, that's not true. I have a love/hate relationship with real estate. I love the possibilies. Bigger rooms, smaller rooms, more rooms, less rooms. Coriander vs. granite. Hard wood vs. carpet. Tile vs. linoleum. Crown molding, wainscotting, or both? Wooden fence, chain link, or iron? The list is endless. I love walking through new houses and considering how I would change the furniture, what color I would paint the walls, and how I could raise my children there. This, of course, is the buying end of real estate.
However, I hate the selling part of real estate. I hate putting my house on the market, waiting for the phone calls, packing all my things under the guise of staging only to unpack them when my house doesn't sell. I hate watching people traipse across my floors, putting their foreign hands on my belongings, all the while knowing they probably won't be buying. Not my house, anyway. I hate hearing them have the same conversation I had in what could have been there house about how they want to change the paint we just applied, tear up the carpet we just put down, and ultimately undo all of our "improvements." In the end, however, none of this really matters. I can get over all of this regardless of whether or not my house sells this time around. No, what really gets to me is the open house and the 21st century neighborhood busybodies.
I know what many of you are probably thinking right now. Busybodies? Seriously? When did we jump back in to the 1950s and how long are we staying? But busybodies they are. You see, I grew up watching countless sitcoms from the 50s and 60s and I saw the endless jokes about the women sitting in their windows, watching the neighbors to see when they left, when they came home, and what new items they brought with them. The ladies got together for coffee or tea when their underlying purpose was to see their competition in the best housekeeping, cooking, and all around housewifery. They made friends with each other, sure, but they also kept a mental list of who had the newest hat or the latest dress and whose husband was the most solicitous of his wife's many needs. Ah, the good old days.
Today, however, we no longer use such underhanded means to spy on our neighbors. We don't borrow cups of sugar, and we don't sit on the front porch to greet each other by name. I knew all of this coming into adulthood. What I didn't know was that these activities had been replaced by much more patient busybodies than we've ever seen before. These women aren't in a hurry to find out the truth about me or my family. Sure, they'll sit by their windows while the moving van is unloaded (taking note, no doubt, of the second-rate moving company and the worse-for-the-wear furniture), but they won't be in such a hurry to gather the nitty-gritty details so quickly. They'll live beside me for years without ever feeling the need to see inside my house or monitor my daily living. Then one fateful day as they are leaving for work or to collect their children, they will notice the telling sign in my front yard: For Sale. Jackpot. With a for sale sign will come the inevitable open house, and that, my friend, is when the 21st century busybodies will make their move.
Make no mistake; this will not be just any old cursory visit. An open house is a full on invitation to the neighborhood to come to my house, examine the details, collect all the dirt, and ultimately put to rest the many questions that have infiltrated their minds for the past four years. It's impressive, really, because these women have not only found a way to gather all of this information without putting in the effort of forced friendship or reluctant socializing, but they have also made it so they can gather all of this information without supervision or interference. Sheer genius. Domestic espionage at its very best.
As I prepare to (potentially) put my house on the market for the second time, these are the memories of our last real estate experience that are racing through my head. All of this makes me want to reconsider putting my house on the market, reconsider ever moving again, or at the very least open my house to the world with a personal invitation to each of my neighbors to come in and view my personal life. This time perhaps I could provide a special handout just for these neighborhood busybodies with directions to my personal closet, a copy of this year's tax forms, and a pricing list of all the major components of my house. You know, just in case they missed anything last year.
However, I hate the selling part of real estate. I hate putting my house on the market, waiting for the phone calls, packing all my things under the guise of staging only to unpack them when my house doesn't sell. I hate watching people traipse across my floors, putting their foreign hands on my belongings, all the while knowing they probably won't be buying. Not my house, anyway. I hate hearing them have the same conversation I had in what could have been there house about how they want to change the paint we just applied, tear up the carpet we just put down, and ultimately undo all of our "improvements." In the end, however, none of this really matters. I can get over all of this regardless of whether or not my house sells this time around. No, what really gets to me is the open house and the 21st century neighborhood busybodies.
I know what many of you are probably thinking right now. Busybodies? Seriously? When did we jump back in to the 1950s and how long are we staying? But busybodies they are. You see, I grew up watching countless sitcoms from the 50s and 60s and I saw the endless jokes about the women sitting in their windows, watching the neighbors to see when they left, when they came home, and what new items they brought with them. The ladies got together for coffee or tea when their underlying purpose was to see their competition in the best housekeeping, cooking, and all around housewifery. They made friends with each other, sure, but they also kept a mental list of who had the newest hat or the latest dress and whose husband was the most solicitous of his wife's many needs. Ah, the good old days.
Today, however, we no longer use such underhanded means to spy on our neighbors. We don't borrow cups of sugar, and we don't sit on the front porch to greet each other by name. I knew all of this coming into adulthood. What I didn't know was that these activities had been replaced by much more patient busybodies than we've ever seen before. These women aren't in a hurry to find out the truth about me or my family. Sure, they'll sit by their windows while the moving van is unloaded (taking note, no doubt, of the second-rate moving company and the worse-for-the-wear furniture), but they won't be in such a hurry to gather the nitty-gritty details so quickly. They'll live beside me for years without ever feeling the need to see inside my house or monitor my daily living. Then one fateful day as they are leaving for work or to collect their children, they will notice the telling sign in my front yard: For Sale. Jackpot. With a for sale sign will come the inevitable open house, and that, my friend, is when the 21st century busybodies will make their move.
Make no mistake; this will not be just any old cursory visit. An open house is a full on invitation to the neighborhood to come to my house, examine the details, collect all the dirt, and ultimately put to rest the many questions that have infiltrated their minds for the past four years. It's impressive, really, because these women have not only found a way to gather all of this information without putting in the effort of forced friendship or reluctant socializing, but they have also made it so they can gather all of this information without supervision or interference. Sheer genius. Domestic espionage at its very best.
As I prepare to (potentially) put my house on the market for the second time, these are the memories of our last real estate experience that are racing through my head. All of this makes me want to reconsider putting my house on the market, reconsider ever moving again, or at the very least open my house to the world with a personal invitation to each of my neighbors to come in and view my personal life. This time perhaps I could provide a special handout just for these neighborhood busybodies with directions to my personal closet, a copy of this year's tax forms, and a pricing list of all the major components of my house. You know, just in case they missed anything last year.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Making it Work as a Working Mom
Starting when I was four years old, my aunt Shannon asked me repeatedly what I wanted to be when I grew up. Each time I would answer, "A mommy!" much to her chagrin. "No!" she responded, "you have to be more than that! You have to have a career!" Needless to say, I didn't listen long. As a teenager, I eschewed the very possibility of having a family. "No kids for me!" I vowed as I planned my future with one dog and a posh apartment in New York City. I married in my early twenties amid renewed conversations about my familial intentions, but my husband and I knew what we would do. We would have kids, as we had planned, and we would both work. Although I never spent a day in daycare, I knew childcare would be an integral part of my future as a parent. Then, of course, came the time when I was pregnant.
For nine months I found myself surrounded by surprising questions about whether or not I would stay home once my daughter was born. I say surprising because it wasn't until I moved to Texas and saw the true definition of the Bible Belt that I also saw how being a stay-at-home mom is not only not a rarity, but it is very much a career choice that women make for themselves with unexpected (for me) frequency. As I grew closer to delivery, my dear aunt returned to this conversation and half-jokingly wondered if she hadn't planted the seed of my determination never to be a stay-at-home mom. I can't say for sure what made me so determined, but determined I was.
After Ellison was born I found myself caught up in my love for my tiny little person, but I was still determined to go to work and still equally flabbergasted at how women could want to stay home (in much the same way other women are astounded by my preference to work). I wanted some time to be with her before returning to work, but standard maternity leave isn't really possible for instructors. Typically speaking, a professor/teaching fellow either takes the semester off or works the duration. Ellison turned six weeks old to the day on the same day the spring semester started, and off to work I went. For her first day in daycare, she was there for two hours. For the first hour I sat on the floor, held her, and cried. She slept through the whole thing. On the second day I had less time, so I cried the entire way to work. I did the same thing on the third day, the fourth day, and every day after that for the first three months my daughter spent in daycare. I cried, I worried, I wondered if I was making the right decision all the while knowing I did not want to be a stay-at-home mom.
It's funny when I reflect on what so many stay-at-home moms told me about what pushed their decision. They talked to me about missing the first smile, the first laugh, the first step. They talked about the possibility of her getting hurt or growing more attached to a teacher instead of me, and so much more. Yet none of this dissuaded me from returning to work. When Ellison was old enough to begin crying when we dropped her off, I, too, began crying again everyday I left her in the arms of another woman. But I still knew I wanted to work.
Today, Ellison is two years and two months old, and she is in preschool. I still work, and she still spends seven to eight hours of her day with other caregivers. I don't regret taking her to daycare and I don't regret choosing to work, but I understand better now than ever before what I really worry about missing. I didn't miss her first smile, laugh, or step (or, if I did miss these things, no one told me), but if I had, she would have done it again, and she would not have realized I missed such a momentous occasion. In the same way, I don't worry about her experiencing an extra cold this year because of the other children around her, and I don't fret over the time she tumbled in school while trying to play in the bathroom. At least, not anymore than I would have worried otherwise.
Instead, when people question me on the events I may miss because I am a working mom, I think about days like today. Today, my daughter was dressed and ready to go when she decided to grab her favorite book and say, "Mommy, we read this first. Then school." If you're reading this blog, you probably can't imagine her large blue eyes looking at me so matter-of-factly, and you definitely can't imagine the innocence in her small little voice as her head bobbed in agreement with her words. Yet these are the moments I worry about missing. How can I possibly tell this perfect little person that we can't read today because Mommy chooses to read to other people instead? What about yesterday when I went to prepare her breakfast and found my speed impeded by my thirty pound daughter who insisted, "I hold you!" while I cooked? These, I fear, are the moments I don't want to miss, and they are the moments I don't want to hurry through in an attempt to get to my out-of-the-home job.
When I first started working I was certain that those hours I spent crying after I dropped Ellison off were undoubtedly the hardest I would endure as a working mom. Needless to say, I was wrong. These hours are harder. These hours are also different because now I know what I'm missing. I still love my job and I would still rather work than stay home, but I have a better understanding of what it means now to leave my child with someone else and miss out on "the moments." I work fewer hours outside of my home now (one of my privileges as an instructor), but I also take comfort in the knowledge that I appreciate each and everyone of these moments because they are so few. I never tire of my daughter, and I never think her messy hands, runny nose, and ear-splitting screams are anything less than adorable. I treasure all of these things because, as her mom, that is also part of my job.
Which, of course, brings us back to when I was four years old. I said I didn't want a career, and I was wrong. When I was a teenager I said I would never have or want children, and I was wrong then, too. When I was pregnant I said I would never regret working, and for once, I was right. I don't regret working anymore than I regret the dissertation that isn't progressing as it should because today, just when it was time to rush out the door to spend hours reading Alice Childress, August Wilson, and the likes, well . . . today I sat down on the floor and read Dr. Seuss instead. And I don't regret that either.
For nine months I found myself surrounded by surprising questions about whether or not I would stay home once my daughter was born. I say surprising because it wasn't until I moved to Texas and saw the true definition of the Bible Belt that I also saw how being a stay-at-home mom is not only not a rarity, but it is very much a career choice that women make for themselves with unexpected (for me) frequency. As I grew closer to delivery, my dear aunt returned to this conversation and half-jokingly wondered if she hadn't planted the seed of my determination never to be a stay-at-home mom. I can't say for sure what made me so determined, but determined I was.
After Ellison was born I found myself caught up in my love for my tiny little person, but I was still determined to go to work and still equally flabbergasted at how women could want to stay home (in much the same way other women are astounded by my preference to work). I wanted some time to be with her before returning to work, but standard maternity leave isn't really possible for instructors. Typically speaking, a professor/teaching fellow either takes the semester off or works the duration. Ellison turned six weeks old to the day on the same day the spring semester started, and off to work I went. For her first day in daycare, she was there for two hours. For the first hour I sat on the floor, held her, and cried. She slept through the whole thing. On the second day I had less time, so I cried the entire way to work. I did the same thing on the third day, the fourth day, and every day after that for the first three months my daughter spent in daycare. I cried, I worried, I wondered if I was making the right decision all the while knowing I did not want to be a stay-at-home mom.
It's funny when I reflect on what so many stay-at-home moms told me about what pushed their decision. They talked to me about missing the first smile, the first laugh, the first step. They talked about the possibility of her getting hurt or growing more attached to a teacher instead of me, and so much more. Yet none of this dissuaded me from returning to work. When Ellison was old enough to begin crying when we dropped her off, I, too, began crying again everyday I left her in the arms of another woman. But I still knew I wanted to work.
Today, Ellison is two years and two months old, and she is in preschool. I still work, and she still spends seven to eight hours of her day with other caregivers. I don't regret taking her to daycare and I don't regret choosing to work, but I understand better now than ever before what I really worry about missing. I didn't miss her first smile, laugh, or step (or, if I did miss these things, no one told me), but if I had, she would have done it again, and she would not have realized I missed such a momentous occasion. In the same way, I don't worry about her experiencing an extra cold this year because of the other children around her, and I don't fret over the time she tumbled in school while trying to play in the bathroom. At least, not anymore than I would have worried otherwise.
Instead, when people question me on the events I may miss because I am a working mom, I think about days like today. Today, my daughter was dressed and ready to go when she decided to grab her favorite book and say, "Mommy, we read this first. Then school." If you're reading this blog, you probably can't imagine her large blue eyes looking at me so matter-of-factly, and you definitely can't imagine the innocence in her small little voice as her head bobbed in agreement with her words. Yet these are the moments I worry about missing. How can I possibly tell this perfect little person that we can't read today because Mommy chooses to read to other people instead? What about yesterday when I went to prepare her breakfast and found my speed impeded by my thirty pound daughter who insisted, "I hold you!" while I cooked? These, I fear, are the moments I don't want to miss, and they are the moments I don't want to hurry through in an attempt to get to my out-of-the-home job.
When I first started working I was certain that those hours I spent crying after I dropped Ellison off were undoubtedly the hardest I would endure as a working mom. Needless to say, I was wrong. These hours are harder. These hours are also different because now I know what I'm missing. I still love my job and I would still rather work than stay home, but I have a better understanding of what it means now to leave my child with someone else and miss out on "the moments." I work fewer hours outside of my home now (one of my privileges as an instructor), but I also take comfort in the knowledge that I appreciate each and everyone of these moments because they are so few. I never tire of my daughter, and I never think her messy hands, runny nose, and ear-splitting screams are anything less than adorable. I treasure all of these things because, as her mom, that is also part of my job.
Which, of course, brings us back to when I was four years old. I said I didn't want a career, and I was wrong. When I was a teenager I said I would never have or want children, and I was wrong then, too. When I was pregnant I said I would never regret working, and for once, I was right. I don't regret working anymore than I regret the dissertation that isn't progressing as it should because today, just when it was time to rush out the door to spend hours reading Alice Childress, August Wilson, and the likes, well . . . today I sat down on the floor and read Dr. Seuss instead. And I don't regret that either.
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