A Working Mother's Struggle - Part One

From the time I was a little girl, I imagined myself staying home with my kids. I wanted to be the Room Mom, the Team Mom, and the Field Trip Mom. I wanted to have the playroom in the house set up like my own mini preschool. After high school and into college, I developed pre-conceived notions about daycare, and had this inner promise that I would NEVER put MY child in a daycare. I can't really pinpoint what made me so adamant about it. While I do remember being envious of the other kids whose Moms volunteered at the school and were home during the summer, I feel like my childhood overall was pretty awesome. I don't ever remember feeling that Mom was at all unavailable or disengaged. She just seemed busier than the other Moms, and we had a whole lotta Hamburger Helper.

I made it clear to Jeff from early on that I intended to stay home full-time when we had children. (I'm sure he was probably thinking, "This is our second date...") Jeff has always wanted his wife to stay home as well, and we made financial decisions accordingly for the five years leading to starting our little family. When I got pregnant, I just talked about how blessed I was that we would had the means to make it happen. I was so excited, and never hesitated to quit my job when Jack was born, and didn't intend to go back for years. I had seen Kim make it look easy with four kids of her own, and a dozen other kids over the years in her own at-home daycare. I was organized too. I loved kids too. I knew I would be a natural.

Then Jack was born.

At first, I was losing weight pretty quickly, I had play dates with Heather, who had just had Lawton two months earlier. Thank goodness for me, Jack was an awesome baby. I was organized, on a strict schedule, and we all slept though the night. Most nights. I was living the dream.

Nursing was another story. (Let's just say it was NOTHING like the beautiful, soft-lighted photos where the Mom rocking her baby, in full makeup and a white flowing nursing gown, gazes into the eyes of her soft, clean, quiet baby while feeding him precious milk of life.) No one told me I'd find myself attached by the chest to a $300 torture device, pumping breast milk at 1:00am plugged into the only power outlet at a Fort Worth truck stop.

Anyway, Jack began to get sick at about nine months old, and began over a year of vomiting many times per day. Thus began the tedious food charts, experimenting with different medications, different foods, etc. and the never-ending cleaning of carpets, crib sheets, car seats, etc. every single day. I felt like I must be doing something wrong. Maybe I should have nursed longer. My life suddenly consisted of sleepless nights, countless feedings he could not keep down, and doctor appointments that would bring more medical bills. My playgroups fizzled, since I was so unreliable and Jack was so unpredictable. I stopped going to Mothers of Preschoolers (MOPS) because I couldn't leave the house without him getting sick before we left, in the car, or while we were there... or all three. Leaving the house was no longer worth it. The specialists finally settled on the diagnosis of 'severe reflux' and assured us he would likely grow out of it in a few years. The testing stopped for the time being.

So, that was it. Reflux. I sat at home with Jack, and began to get sad. All of a sudden this was not fun any more. Guilt was setting in. I felt guilty that for all these years, staying home had been too much about ME, and not as much about the baby. Now I could not leave the house. I had no one to talk to during the day. Even Heather had gone back to work. I began to grow jealous of my friends who were at work. I couldn't call them during the day and bug them at their desks. They had meetings. They had business suits and briefcases. They had laptops and work phones. I felt lonely. The guilt grew. I felt guilty for wanting more. It felt like a part of me was dying.

Because I had set such high expectations and had been vocally one-sided on the issue for so long, I couldn't imagine considering changing my "position" on the daycare issue. I began to feel guilty for wanting to work. I even felt guilty for judging working Moms in years past, for assuming they must not be willing to make sacrifices needed to stay home. I started to miss my business suits. I missed the meetings and the adult conversation. I missed the performance reviews and the kudos and the "You're doing a great job!" I missed the quiet.

I was even jealous that Jeff got to go to work. I resented the late nights and the Saturdays when I was home with this sick baby while he was "watching TV between sales." While I was at home eating another sandwich, he was at Chili's and Mama's Cafe with the guys. I felt guilty that I was making him feel guilty for being away at work.

As if I did not have enough guilt, I felt guilty that I was feeling sorry for myself. I knew there were Moms in our same hospital whose children were blind, had cancer, or couldn't eat at all. Those Moms would give anything if all they had to deal with was a little vomiting. Here I was feeling sorry for myself when I had so much for which to be thankful. However, at the time, this was my reality. I knew I needed a new outlook on my situation, but I was having a hard time 'snapping out of it.'

... to be continued...