Hey folks. It’s been a while since I wrote but that’s cause I’ve been mildly preoccupied with my now toddler and a newborn. If you still want to read my stuff, you can follow me here too or @ Workerbiatch Mama.
Teaser for my new post is below.
I’m dizzy. I’ve arrived an hour early for an event at my 2-year-old son’s daycare and while trying to make sense of the flurry of activity unfolding around me something becomes blatantly clear. Clearly I’ve entered a world of sophisticated negotiating I’m ill-equipped to navigate.
Having just gotten back from Israel, I was struck by some of the attitudes moms there have towards moms in America. There’s a perception that exists among some Israelis that, in America, moms don’t work. I didn’t mean to disappoint but while I was there I shed the stereotype with at least 2 working moms I met. To boot, they seemed to think that the hours we working moms log in the US (namely me) are less than desirable. I can’t blame them. I feel the same. Per usual, guilt followed, and had me reeling and second guessing every decision I ever made with regards to my son. Disclaimer here: Yes, I’m this sensitive.
In short, as a mom and a working one you’re always going to feel guilty. The bigger over-arching theme here is that if you’re predisposed to feeling guilty being a working mom sucks. Scratch that. Being an over-achiever and a mom sucks cause there’s not enough time in the day to be awesome at any of them. The most you can hope for is being great at any one of them and for a girl that always needed a star on her homework assignments and could delineate being the “Good,” “Very Good,” and “Great” attached to those very same stars and whose mood was dependent on which modifier I received… well, let’s just say “sensitivity” is not a word that’s taken lightly in my household without at least a coat of defensiveness running a few inches deep.
There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t leave my son in the morning that I think to myself, “Shit, I forgot to tell his babysitter this and this could have potentially affected that which ultimately affects this which could cumulatively could affect everything. ”
If I was always borderline neurotic post-baby, having something left to my responsibility more precious than anything in the world put me over the edge. I spend so much time exhausting scenarios in my head, I wonder if my analytical mind is being put to waste here. Is it possible that the very career I’ve trained for which requires me to break things down to their very essence and rigorously assess schemes and their feasibility works against me in my role at home?
At the end of the day I have to hope not. I have to hope that the sum of all of my experiences only empowers me in my most important role – that of mom.
What do you think?
If cats have 9 lives and humans only 1, how can you explain the fact that I’ve gone and knocked off 2 lives in the past 2 months? If this rationale is correct (and #s aren’t really my forte) I must be some sort of she-cat.
By now you must be curious how I evaded the clutches of death not once, but twice. I never expected to go down the route of death by drowning but it turns out my body had other plans for me after the birth of my son. Births are supposed to be miraculous, life-changing events and seeing my son for the 1st time was.
It was all the stuff after that really defined the overall experience for me.
After 22-hours of laboring from induction, being 9 cm dilated, I had a c-section anyways. Somewhere in all of this marathon which included a really crap episode of “Lost” (Seriously JJ Abrams, you deserve a drastic cut in pay for that one) I contracted some less-than-5%-of-the-population-get-this-and-your-body-could-turn-septic-on-you-and-kill-you-or-at-best-render-your-uterus-a-thing-of-the-past. Oh, and breastfeeding? You can forget about that. You’re hanging on by a tiny thread here. Get serious!
Yes, I almost died and much to every woman’s nightmare my body was flooded with infected fluid which not only threatened to shut down my vital organs but made me incredibly bloated with distended belly which prevented me from walking or seeing my toes for that matter. In short, I got fat and after being fat for 9 mos. that is the last thing a pregnant woman wants.
But the worst of it was the constant memory of my own mother’s tragic turn. Memories flooding my mind of her telling me she didn’t want to leave us and worried about who would look after us and then in the end after all the radiation, kicking the bucket in her 40s after cancer ripped thru her body the way a weedwacker hacks it way thru an unkept field. I know most healthy, active people my age don’t resort to thinking they are dying but when doctors throw words at you like “life-threatening” and this is what you know, you resign yourself to being done for.
But I’m not dead – or at least I hope not because in heaven you should NOT get your period. I’m here writing this post after a month has gone by and I’ve been able to convalesce at my house and while I would have preferred to be 100% healthy with all the sleep deprivation that goes on looking after a newborn, I’m also grateful I got to be home and to get to know him, 2X daily IV infusions and all – even if I am, as one doctor put it, a “postpartum disaster.”
I guess there is no point to this post at all (like many of my ramblings) but what I’m left with in all of this is this familiar adage my husband taught me and now feels branded on my soul, “We make plans and G-d laughs.” If you could have told me 2.5 months ago that I would have needed a c-section and to boot I wouldn’t have been able to breastfeed that would have been my greatest fear. Turns out that stuff is all bubkis. The best gift you can give to a kid is the one you don’t really have 100% control over – being healthy. For now, I dodged a bullet I think and let’s hope that this whole she-cat thing buys me more time on this earth. I now have 2 very important reasons not to travel too far from this planet anytime soon.
And here you probably thought I was going to close this post out on a cheeky, irreverent note…