I'm not the star they say I am,
Just one more pathetic sham.
I'll never make it.
How can I expect to hold this pose?
Mother, writer, wife, or friend:
where does one begin or end?
O God I feel like such a fraud,
like every inch of me is flawed,
but still I smile while they applaud.
My life has gotten so complicated:
so underwhelming and overrated.
I can feel the heat but I still can't see the light.
- "Worst Day of My Life" (Wonderland, Jack Murphy)
When I was 37 weeks pregnant with my second son, my scheduled OB visit ended
with me being sent directly over to the hospital for emergency testing and
observation. My blood pressure was high (as usual) and routine tests had my
doctor concerned that I might be showing signs of preeclampsia. I should have
been panicked, worrying about my own health and the well-being of my sweet baby
boy, but I do not remember feeling frightened at all. What I felt was ticked. The show I was directing was due
to be performed in just two days at our district one act play festival. It was
my first year as head of our theatre department and I was determined that the show
be perfect. A trip to the hospital meant
I would miss, at the very least, our last school-based rehearsal. I was on the
phone with my assistant director before my OB had even come back with admission
orders. When I was sent home from the hospital later in the afternoon (I did
not have preeclampsia after all), I went straight to school and remained there
until past 8:00, finishing last minute details and writing up instructions for
every detail of every remaining moment of rehearsal and performance. I was
"nesting," but instead of being at home preparing my family for our
new arrival, I was desperately trying to prepare my students and colleagues for
my absence. When my water broke later the same night, my first thoughts were
about the site-based tech rehearsal I would have to miss. I spent the majority
of my labor on the phone or e-mailing to make sure that life in the theatre
department was proceeding as smoothly as possible. I want to say that I also
called frequently to check on my older son, home with relatives, but honestly I
don't remember whether I did or not.
It took four months away (six weeks of
maternity leave backed up to summer vacation) for me to realize that there had
been something "off" about my priorities during my labor and probably
for many months preceding it. It took another six months for me to gather
the courage to do something about it. Then, within the span of a month, we
decided not to send my youngest to mother's day out, pulled my oldest out of
his pricey Montessori school, .... and I quit my job. I turned in my
resignation, marched down to my best friend's classroom and pronounced
"I'm done." Of course, at that point I still had several months of
school to muddle through before I could truly be "done," but she saw
the difference immediately and swears that was the moment I began the journey
from micro-managing dictatorial director to "crazy hippie
chick."
I've always been an over-acheiver. I was a
straight-A student, graduated (early) in the top 5% of my high school class,
then finished an honors undergraduate program in three years with a 3.95 GPA. I
easily got a teaching job in the district I grew up in and within two years was
teaching at my first choice of intermediate schools. When this didn't bring me
satisfaction, I went back to graduate school and fumed over the two A minuses
that brought my GPA down to a 3.97 instead of the perfect 4.0 I wanted. By the
time I graduated with my MA (6 months pregnant with my second son), I was head
of my theatre department, serving on numerous committees and sponsoring a large
handful of student activities and organizations. I frequently worked ten hour
days, often six days a week. I loved my job and I was
extremely good at it...
But here's the thing no one ever tells
type-A wonderkids like me: It's
never enough. You push and stress and strive towards whatever goal is
obsessing you at the moment, celebrate when you finally reach the finish line,
and then turn around and start a new race. There is always a bigger project to tackle, a new
title to reach for, another competition to dominate. You can always find a way
to be just that litle bit better. It
never ends. I am the first to admit that the challenge is exciting... and
consuming.
I loved my job... but at the end of the
day, I love my family more.
The problem was that when I took a step back and examined where my time and
energy were going, it was definitely not my family that was receiving the best
and biggest parts of me. In recent months I have resolved to change that,
branching out and attempting to chart a new course for my life and that of my
family.
This blog was conceived to help me
document our family's changing dynamic as we attempt to shift our priorities
and change our fast-paced, often materialistic lifestyle. I welcome my
family and friends as well as any others who happen to stumble by to stay tuned
for lots of news, photos, and ramblings from yours truly.
I have wanted to be a mother for as long as I can remember. I grew up with pretty much the most amazing mom on the planet and I have always been certain that I wanted to follow in her footsteps. For many years, I assumed that would mean being a stay at home mom as well. When Munchkin was born, however, there was no way that was in the cards financially, so I went back to work when he was just 5 weeks old. By the time I could have considered staying home, I was used to the chaos, craziness, and cash that came with being a working mom.
That's not to say that I put any less energy into parenting. I have always been the mom who ran the playgroup, threw the parties, and hosted the playdates. We did Gymboree on the weekends and Kindermusik in the evenings because I was determined that Munchkin not miss out because I was working. I refused to put either child in day care, and was lucky enough to have the extended family to make that happen. It did however mean that every week was a puzzle of who was going where and being picked up when by who.... It was exhausting.
As much as I regret working so much during Munchkin's early years, I am proud to say that I don't think either of my kids has missed out on anything because of my job. They have been cared for by warm, loving family and friends. They have social groups they enjoy. They've been to Disney World, Disney Land, the beach, waterparks, and more. Of course, I am also one of those Pinterest moms... you know, a new project or sensory play material every week? Glow play, gloop making, sidewalk painting... we've done it all, though not as frequently as I would like.
I'm also generally pleased by most of our larger parenting choices. Breastfeeding, baby-wearing, and co-sleeping all felt natural to us and played a large role in keeping our boys bonded and attached despite my chaotic work schedule. Of course, this also meant that I began to fall into that crazy "crunchy" mama group... the ones who buy only organics at the farmers market, debate vaccines for hours, and think breastmilk is the solution to all childhood ailments? Yep. That's me. Don't judge. I never thought I'd be here either. Being a working crunchy mom made me something of an anomaly... but it also meant that I had the most incredible cheering section when I made the crazy decision to walk away from the job I loved.
So... Where do I go from here if I have all this parenting stuff figured out, right? WRONG. Somewhere in the chaos and business that became our life, I never figured out how to enjoy the little things. Sitting on the floor playing makes me anxious. Reading stacks of books, my head is always somewhere else. I am always half convinced that there is something more and better we should be doing when the reality is that those little moments are what my boys need more than anything. I want to slow down. To be silly. To not be too busy to sit and snuggle and read. To play in cardboard rocket ships. To walk to the park. To paint without worrying about the mess we are creating. To lie on the floor pushing cars and trains around. To just be with my kids.
