This time last year, I went back to work after the holiday break. I was mid-way through my second year of working with two kids in daycare. Just prior to Christmas, my oldest had “graduated” from the small, fantastic home daycare he’d been at since he was 10 weeks old to begin 2015 with a bigger group of 3-year-olds at “preschool"--a larger facility with an extensive cast and crew vs. the small, intimate environment of just one uber-capable and loving individual. My youngest would remain at the home daycare to soak in the benefits of that smaller setting just a little bit longer--among them, an incredibly low rate for the quality of care that particular provider afforded us.
Despite the bargain the home daycare was, adding that extra kid to the bill in 2013 had been somewhat crippling, financially--not like losing a leg, but perhaps like an arthritic toe that slows you down and makes you hobble a bit. Something you better get checked out--but it's not gonna kill you. Embarking on an era with two kids in separate daycares would not only pose a new logistical challenge for 2015, it was very likely to prove financially unsustainable by significantly increasing our monthly childcare output—thus, threatening to negate the income I was working so hard to pull in. And if that was the case, Ray and I had begrudgingly agreed, it would be time to “lose the leg” entirely--and have me just stay home with the kids.
According to my husband's research, somebody out there was making money at my job--but it certainly was not me. Then again, I had made a decent living at one time--but only when I was childless and availed myself to clients as early as 7:30 am and as late as 6 pm, with the rest stacked up like airplanes throughout the day, as I raced from house to daycare to school every 30-45 minutes, eating lunch in my car and peeing at gas stations.
I'd always planned to be a working mom. I'd gone to the effort of getting a Master’s degree and was 5 years into my career before I'd finished paying for the length and breadth of my higher education (which I realize, puts me among the lucky). I had paid for the privilege of working with blood, sweat, tears--and SO very much money. Plus, I had always worked at least one, if not two jobs since high school, all of which included either cleaning bathrooms or wiping asses--so when I finally graduated to an actual career that required neither, it seemed ungrateful and counter intuitive to stay home--where a return to cleaning bathrooms and wiping asses was an undeniable certainty.
So when my firstborn was just 10 weeks old, I raced back to work with a fearful anxiety that I'd somehow forgotten everything I'd ever learned about speech therapy, along with the added suffocating pressure of simultaneously maintaining my new position as "mom". I pumped in the handicapped bathroom at one of my schools, until I finally resigned myself to pumping in the car--eventually, learning to pump while driving en route between therapy sites. I took on less responsibility at work, opting out of my previous management position to "just do therapy"--but still felt worn thin in my efforts to be both a therapist and new mom. I was lucky to find the best possible child care provider--a loving caregiver for my son, and a mentor and friend to Ray and me, as we stumbled through that first year. Still. It was rough. But it was manageable.
By the time my son was 13-months old, I was miraculously pregnant again, despite infertility issues the first time around. By the time he was 19 months old, I was rotund and literally limping from site to site with my enormous therapy bag, having incurred the kind of temporary hip injury pregnant women are apparently prone to as the alien inside them tries to split their pelvis apart. I could barely play with my own kid at home, and chasing after other people's children--as my job often required--was now out of the question. As I lurched, grimacing, into my various buildings, I was greeted by teachers and staff who either attempted to placate my obvious pain--"You're glowing!" or make jokes--"Is it time? Should I call the doctor and boil some hot water?"
Fortunately, after a little bit of physical therapy and a scheduled c-section, I regained the ability to ambulate like I was 30-something vs. 90-something, and moved on to the challenge of mothering a toddler and a newborn. I went back to work with confidence that my two kids were in hands more capable than mine at the home daycare--but again, I had to wonder if I could handle my end of the deal.
Sometimes, work was an escape, a treasure trove of intermittent opportunities for sweet, sweet solitude--like commuting, using the bathroom, pumping in the car--interspersed with adult conversation and kids I could dismiss after their 30-minute session was over. Other times, work was a crushing burden—an insurmountable incline of emails and phone calls and paperwork to finish after the kids went to bed (whenever that happened to be)--an obstacle to be overcome when I needed to be home with sick children--or just be mentally present for them in the few waking hours we shared before and after daycare.
And those hours? Those precious and limited moments of togetherness? They were too often rushed and miserable, a whirlwind of whining and behavior management--a sad showcase of the worst times of the day for everyone involved. I, personally, am slow and confused in the morning--and in the scramble to get ready for work, was entirely dependent on routine and ritual to ensure I went through all the necessary steps to prep the kids and leave house wearing pants. Meanwhile, the supporting cast of Goldilocks and The Three Bears I shared a home with seemed to be working against my efforts at every turn. My youngest was the Goldilocks of the three, forever trying new sleep and poop schedules on for size that were "just right" for no one--rendering me useless from lack of sleep and/or making me late by dropping a last-minute deuce-bomb that sent a mushroom cloud of shit up the back of his onesie two seconds before we were supposed to leave. My older son was the evil Baby Bear of the bunch, unleashing a white-hot, wasp-like rage in response to my gentle attempts at waking him."Sweetie...it's time..." would initiate a cascade of ugliness including "Get out of my face!" and a collection of growled utterances that were toddler-speak for "F you", "Go to hell" and "I will fight you all the way to the car". My husband--the narcoleptic Daddy Bear in this example--for all his helpfulness at other times, does NOT wake easily and leaves himself just enough time to piss and dress while remotely starting his car from the bedroom. If the kids were loud and ill-tempered enough to interfere with his brief process, however—Sleepy Daddy quickly became Angry Daddy—and the ensuing wrath incurred was a sour note indeed on which to begin the day.
Anywhere between 4:30 and 6:00 pm, when the live-long day was finally through for me, I’d arrive at the doorstep of two different daycare locations to collect my beloveds. The big daycare would give me glowing reports regarding the delightfulness of my child, whose behavior would then deteriorate with break-neck speed from the classroom to the car door, with meltdowns about everything from putting his jacket on to getting another sip of water from the water fountain to how unbearable the traffic was on the four-mile journey to the home daycare. The home daycare would give me a loving but accurate account of my younger son’s day (great; ok; rough; emotional, aka, whiny mess), while my oldest boy did his best to upset the apple cart in the 10 minutes he was there, running wild like he’d lost all his sense from a head injury incurred on the drive over. I’d wrestle them both back into the car, so they could whine, wail, and argue the entire way home—where the fun and games would continue as I scrambled to pull a dinner together that their sour moods would ruin three nights out of five. The night would often clang to a close with yelling and frustration due to fights over bath, bedtime, or whatever activities the former had deprived them of participating in. They’d eventually sleep, I’d wrap up paperwork from the day, and typically pass out next to Ray on the couch with the TV in the background before stumbling off to bed—and then it would all begin again. A relentless Groundhog Day scenario that was only a little better over the weekend, when a lot of the free time for “fun stuff” was still eaten up by parental chores and errands the kids had to suffer through.
You’d think I would’ve jumped at the chance to quit working long ago—since I already had another full-time job that I was trying to cram in between the hours of 6 pm and 7 am. But it’s hard to let go. And I found pride and value in my work—so when Ray first suggested that our net income and overall quality of life might be better if I just stayed home until at least one child was in public school, I was incredulous. How can you say that! But it was true. I was killing myself to be mediocre at both work and home, and had pocket change to show for it after childcare. And then it snowed half the month of February. The schools were closed (because this is the south) and I couldn’t get paid because I was a contractor. Nevertheless, those daycare payments were still due, no matter what—which meant I actually lost money that month by trying to work. That’s when I knew it was time to hang it up. At least until I could somehow make it make sense again.
But this time last year, in January 2015, that final nail was a still a month away from piercing the coffin, and I was still teetering on the knife-edge between working and staying home—until June, when my semi-reluctant sabbatical began. I’m proud to have made it as long as I did, but as I reflect on 2015, I’m relieved (and pleasantly surprised) that the second half was SO much better than the first and I'm grateful to Ray for getting me here.
He’s always been better at giving gifts and knowing what I need before I do. And this year is no exception. I needed this. It's not glamorous and there's not a ton of personal freedom--but I'm freer than I've ever been to be with my kids. And even if it has its days, I already know that's not what I'll remember most when I look back. Not everyone has a spouse to parent with—much less, a spouse who can carry the weight while the other person stays home for any length of time. And situations change. Our current set-up could be up-ended any day. But in the meantime, Ray has given me a gift that will keep on giving--because I'm quite certain the memory of what I've had the privilege to do this year will only be sweeter the bigger and badder my little boys get.
Although many may joke that the people they work with couldn't wipe their asses without them--I can say with full confidence that's the case in my current position. I will never be more needed and more relevant in this job--or any job--than I am right now. And I know that I will treasure this time infinitely more years from now than I do in the moment. And that's saying a lot. Because some of these moments are really spectacular. And I would've missed them if not for my partner making them possible.
Despite the bargain the home daycare was, adding that extra kid to the bill in 2013 had been somewhat crippling, financially--not like losing a leg, but perhaps like an arthritic toe that slows you down and makes you hobble a bit. Something you better get checked out--but it's not gonna kill you. Embarking on an era with two kids in separate daycares would not only pose a new logistical challenge for 2015, it was very likely to prove financially unsustainable by significantly increasing our monthly childcare output—thus, threatening to negate the income I was working so hard to pull in. And if that was the case, Ray and I had begrudgingly agreed, it would be time to “lose the leg” entirely--and have me just stay home with the kids.
According to my husband's research, somebody out there was making money at my job--but it certainly was not me. Then again, I had made a decent living at one time--but only when I was childless and availed myself to clients as early as 7:30 am and as late as 6 pm, with the rest stacked up like airplanes throughout the day, as I raced from house to daycare to school every 30-45 minutes, eating lunch in my car and peeing at gas stations.
I'd always planned to be a working mom. I'd gone to the effort of getting a Master’s degree and was 5 years into my career before I'd finished paying for the length and breadth of my higher education (which I realize, puts me among the lucky). I had paid for the privilege of working with blood, sweat, tears--and SO very much money. Plus, I had always worked at least one, if not two jobs since high school, all of which included either cleaning bathrooms or wiping asses--so when I finally graduated to an actual career that required neither, it seemed ungrateful and counter intuitive to stay home--where a return to cleaning bathrooms and wiping asses was an undeniable certainty.
So when my firstborn was just 10 weeks old, I raced back to work with a fearful anxiety that I'd somehow forgotten everything I'd ever learned about speech therapy, along with the added suffocating pressure of simultaneously maintaining my new position as "mom". I pumped in the handicapped bathroom at one of my schools, until I finally resigned myself to pumping in the car--eventually, learning to pump while driving en route between therapy sites. I took on less responsibility at work, opting out of my previous management position to "just do therapy"--but still felt worn thin in my efforts to be both a therapist and new mom. I was lucky to find the best possible child care provider--a loving caregiver for my son, and a mentor and friend to Ray and me, as we stumbled through that first year. Still. It was rough. But it was manageable.
By the time my son was 13-months old, I was miraculously pregnant again, despite infertility issues the first time around. By the time he was 19 months old, I was rotund and literally limping from site to site with my enormous therapy bag, having incurred the kind of temporary hip injury pregnant women are apparently prone to as the alien inside them tries to split their pelvis apart. I could barely play with my own kid at home, and chasing after other people's children--as my job often required--was now out of the question. As I lurched, grimacing, into my various buildings, I was greeted by teachers and staff who either attempted to placate my obvious pain--"You're glowing!" or make jokes--"Is it time? Should I call the doctor and boil some hot water?"
Fortunately, after a little bit of physical therapy and a scheduled c-section, I regained the ability to ambulate like I was 30-something vs. 90-something, and moved on to the challenge of mothering a toddler and a newborn. I went back to work with confidence that my two kids were in hands more capable than mine at the home daycare--but again, I had to wonder if I could handle my end of the deal.
Sometimes, work was an escape, a treasure trove of intermittent opportunities for sweet, sweet solitude--like commuting, using the bathroom, pumping in the car--interspersed with adult conversation and kids I could dismiss after their 30-minute session was over. Other times, work was a crushing burden—an insurmountable incline of emails and phone calls and paperwork to finish after the kids went to bed (whenever that happened to be)--an obstacle to be overcome when I needed to be home with sick children--or just be mentally present for them in the few waking hours we shared before and after daycare.
And those hours? Those precious and limited moments of togetherness? They were too often rushed and miserable, a whirlwind of whining and behavior management--a sad showcase of the worst times of the day for everyone involved. I, personally, am slow and confused in the morning--and in the scramble to get ready for work, was entirely dependent on routine and ritual to ensure I went through all the necessary steps to prep the kids and leave house wearing pants. Meanwhile, the supporting cast of Goldilocks and The Three Bears I shared a home with seemed to be working against my efforts at every turn. My youngest was the Goldilocks of the three, forever trying new sleep and poop schedules on for size that were "just right" for no one--rendering me useless from lack of sleep and/or making me late by dropping a last-minute deuce-bomb that sent a mushroom cloud of shit up the back of his onesie two seconds before we were supposed to leave. My older son was the evil Baby Bear of the bunch, unleashing a white-hot, wasp-like rage in response to my gentle attempts at waking him."Sweetie...it's time..." would initiate a cascade of ugliness including "Get out of my face!" and a collection of growled utterances that were toddler-speak for "F you", "Go to hell" and "I will fight you all the way to the car". My husband--the narcoleptic Daddy Bear in this example--for all his helpfulness at other times, does NOT wake easily and leaves himself just enough time to piss and dress while remotely starting his car from the bedroom. If the kids were loud and ill-tempered enough to interfere with his brief process, however—Sleepy Daddy quickly became Angry Daddy—and the ensuing wrath incurred was a sour note indeed on which to begin the day.
Anywhere between 4:30 and 6:00 pm, when the live-long day was finally through for me, I’d arrive at the doorstep of two different daycare locations to collect my beloveds. The big daycare would give me glowing reports regarding the delightfulness of my child, whose behavior would then deteriorate with break-neck speed from the classroom to the car door, with meltdowns about everything from putting his jacket on to getting another sip of water from the water fountain to how unbearable the traffic was on the four-mile journey to the home daycare. The home daycare would give me a loving but accurate account of my younger son’s day (great; ok; rough; emotional, aka, whiny mess), while my oldest boy did his best to upset the apple cart in the 10 minutes he was there, running wild like he’d lost all his sense from a head injury incurred on the drive over. I’d wrestle them both back into the car, so they could whine, wail, and argue the entire way home—where the fun and games would continue as I scrambled to pull a dinner together that their sour moods would ruin three nights out of five. The night would often clang to a close with yelling and frustration due to fights over bath, bedtime, or whatever activities the former had deprived them of participating in. They’d eventually sleep, I’d wrap up paperwork from the day, and typically pass out next to Ray on the couch with the TV in the background before stumbling off to bed—and then it would all begin again. A relentless Groundhog Day scenario that was only a little better over the weekend, when a lot of the free time for “fun stuff” was still eaten up by parental chores and errands the kids had to suffer through.
You’d think I would’ve jumped at the chance to quit working long ago—since I already had another full-time job that I was trying to cram in between the hours of 6 pm and 7 am. But it’s hard to let go. And I found pride and value in my work—so when Ray first suggested that our net income and overall quality of life might be better if I just stayed home until at least one child was in public school, I was incredulous. How can you say that! But it was true. I was killing myself to be mediocre at both work and home, and had pocket change to show for it after childcare. And then it snowed half the month of February. The schools were closed (because this is the south) and I couldn’t get paid because I was a contractor. Nevertheless, those daycare payments were still due, no matter what—which meant I actually lost money that month by trying to work. That’s when I knew it was time to hang it up. At least until I could somehow make it make sense again.
But this time last year, in January 2015, that final nail was a still a month away from piercing the coffin, and I was still teetering on the knife-edge between working and staying home—until June, when my semi-reluctant sabbatical began. I’m proud to have made it as long as I did, but as I reflect on 2015, I’m relieved (and pleasantly surprised) that the second half was SO much better than the first and I'm grateful to Ray for getting me here.
He’s always been better at giving gifts and knowing what I need before I do. And this year is no exception. I needed this. It's not glamorous and there's not a ton of personal freedom--but I'm freer than I've ever been to be with my kids. And even if it has its days, I already know that's not what I'll remember most when I look back. Not everyone has a spouse to parent with—much less, a spouse who can carry the weight while the other person stays home for any length of time. And situations change. Our current set-up could be up-ended any day. But in the meantime, Ray has given me a gift that will keep on giving--because I'm quite certain the memory of what I've had the privilege to do this year will only be sweeter the bigger and badder my little boys get.
Although many may joke that the people they work with couldn't wipe their asses without them--I can say with full confidence that's the case in my current position. I will never be more needed and more relevant in this job--or any job--than I am right now. And I know that I will treasure this time infinitely more years from now than I do in the moment. And that's saying a lot. Because some of these moments are really spectacular. And I would've missed them if not for my partner making them possible.
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