Work It: a blog for Working Moms

Guest Writer: Finding voices like my own

by Guest Writer: Donna A.

Editor's Note: Donna recently emailed us with this and I was compelled to share it. Her empowerment in finding a group of women dealing with similar thoughts and feelings is the reason I started this site a few years ago. Thanks for the reminder, Donna!

On a night when I needed it, when my two older kids were melting and crabby from the sudden oppressive heat, and I was barking and frustrated by their crabbiness, hot and disappointed about what felt like a lack of success at the office and dreading a 9:00 a.m. meeting tomorrow that involves my having to reprimand a colleague for bad behavior, when my husband is out with friends, and my youngest has taken to spitting for attention, and when I couldn't even think of what to knit to rescue myself from myself, I found you.

I have been searching to find women in something even close to my situation, and have struggled. Sometimes I feel like I inhabit a different planet than other mothers I know. I am not speaking a different language--but surely a different dialect-- from stay-at-home mothers, mothers with children in daycare, mothers who see me through the lens of their own working husbands who stay late at the office or travel too much, mothers who have immaculate homes and clean closets and bathrooms, and who have clothes that always fit, always match, and who know about every in-school and after school function, event, schedule, and its requirements.

I work full time, my husband stays home with my 3 children (ages 7, 5, and 3) and teaches and trains in kung fu at least three nights a week. I have a Ph.D., a management position, and a long commute. I rely on my Blackberry to ease my working-parent/parent-working guilt and keep myself from feeling (more) overwhelmed.

I lay out my children's clothing at night and make lunches every morning even when my eyes are crossing and I have no idea how to make a totally "peanut-free" lunch, so I pack mini-wheats more days than I should, just so that I can feel like a part of their day. I try to make gifts for their teachers, never volunteer in the classroom, and try to volunteer for as many shape-cutting, label counting, baking activities that I can do at home in the evening. In short, I try. I try, and I know that I never get it all right -- but I hope that on certain weeks, I can get 85% of it right, and I pray that the lost 15% comes out of my job and not my kids.

I have guilt. Did I add that I was raised Catholic? Back to the guilt . . . I never feel like I have enough time for myself, and I have guilt about that, about wanting that, about not even knowing what to do with it if I had it.

In short, I sound like a bit of every person I have "met" here as I have read tonight -- and that alone is a blessing for me.

I look forward to reading and learning more about all of you. And I think that I may have finally found people who, like me, are just doing their best, trying to be the best women, mothers, workers, wives, fill-in-the-blanks we know how -- and failing at at least some of it at least some of the time. I want to talk with others who recognize and understand those challenges, and can celebrate with me when we remember what success looks like, even when it only looks like remembering not to beat ourselves up too much.

And in closing, I have to say that I am self-aware enough to understand and to learn more every day. And this year I learned that no guilt is enough to make me volunteer to be the label-counter for my kids' classrooms ever again.

Swimming

By Sherry

I’ll never forget my friend’s horror at her child’s full-immersion baptism. “Father, NO!” she cried as we nervously observed the sacrament. Those words still haunt me, as they were my first clue to the heart-wrenching business of parenting.

It wasn’t until after my son Nathaniel was born that I realized the full impact of her anguish—the momentary loss of control blended with pure fear and a parent’s protective instinct. Excursions around town with my newborn were comparable to shielding a chicken egg from damage. Was he really that vulnerable? Probably not. But as author John Irving noted, “When you have children, the world suddenly becomes a place where something could happen.”

As the parent of a now 2-year-old, one of my greatest sources of anxiety is the fact that we live in a coastal community where summertime means swimming, surfing and sailing. I’m bracing for the day my baby becomes the surfboard-packing teenager intent on hitting the waves solo. In the meantime, my toddler is enrolled in swim lessons—intense, one-on-one sessions geared toward survival. This gives me peace of mind. At least for now.

In the weeks prior to the first lesson, I talked about swimming pools and water constantly to get my little boy psyched about his first pool trip. And then the day arrived. With new, blue swim diapers, he excitedly approached the heated pool. And then it hit us—the screams and cries of children experiencing their first lesson. It was almost time for my son’s turn and all I could think was, “They’re torturing children and mine is next.”

My little egg’s eyes widened to the size of silver dollars as I gingerly placed him in the swim instructor’s arms.

“Are…you…putting…him…under…water today?” I hesitantly asked.

“Yes,” replied the teacher.

But before I could utter my version of “Father NO,” she swept my little boy into the water. Which he hated. Through searing tears, we continued our daily pool trips. It was pure misery for both of us. That is, until he started to relax. Now he giggles during the lesson. His favorite part is swimming under water to catch the fish etched into the pool tiles. When he pops his head up and greets me with “Hi!” my heart just melts. What a relief. He still gets irritated when learning something new, but for the most part he enjoys the experience.

Nathaniel has been swimming for three weeks and has come such a long way. We both have. One of the most profound lessons I have learned in my lifetime is that not even the smallest measure of success happens without a certain degree of tears, frustration and angst. But if you grow into someone who continuously swims upward in spite of the tide, the fresh air above can be simply divine. That my son is learning this at the age of two is bittersweet.

Sherry Friel is contributing to "Work it" as an occasional guest writer.