As a full-time working mama of three with an hour commute, I hold my 10 measly vacation days, greedily, close to my heart. Coming off of last year, when I used my vacation time to pad my maternity, er, short-term disability leave (seriously, America, get it together), I deliberated extra hard this year on how to use my time. I ended up taking a random Friday and saving a day for my son's first day of preschool and few more for the holiday season. But, this week, this glorious week, was to be mine all mine. From 5:30 p.m. on Friday until 8:30 a.m. two Mondays later, I was to be a free, relaxed and slightly tanner version of me. If I had my way, I'd be cooling myself in a Dominican waterfall in no time.
By Annie As a full-time working mama of three with an hour commute, I hold my 10 measly vacation days, greedily, close to my heart. Coming off of last year, when I used my vacation time to pad my maternity, er, short-term disability leave (seriously, America, get it together), I deliberated extra hard this year on how to use my time. I ended up taking a random Friday and saving a day for my son's first day of preschool and few more for the holiday season. But, this week, this glorious week, was to be mine all mine. From 5:30 p.m. on Friday until 8:30 a.m. two Mondays later, I was to be a free, relaxed and slightly tanner version of me. If I had my way, I'd be cooling myself in a Dominican waterfall in no time. But, seriously, I was looking forward to a week away with my family at Lake Erie. Sun, sand, carbs, Nutella. It was a modest vacation, but it was mine, and I was ready. Of course, the morning we were set to leave... I kicked off my vacation with a trip to the emergency room and a searing, watery corneal abrasion. All thanks to my 15-month-old and her tiny, ragged fingernail. (MOTY Tip: Trim your kids' nails. Turns out, it's worth it.) Luckily, the doctor gave me some numbing eye drops, and I was back in vacation mode in no time. Don't feel bad for me. Sure, the first three days of my vacation were tainted by the obnoxious sensation that I had a shard of glass the size of a paperclip in my eye and one half of my nose was in constant drip mode. And, yes, I was under doctor's orders not to read, drive or have excessive screen time (all restrictions that would have had me signed out of work were I not, you know, on vacation). Don't feel bad at all. The ordeal was quick, and I was relaxing in no time.
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By Annie This weekend, we mamas gracefully take a step back and honor the dads in our lives. The good ones, the so-so ones, the ones who made us mothers and the ones who shaped our own sense of parenthood. As a full-time working mama, I'd like to give a special shout-out to those dads out there, like my partner in parenting, who empower women like me. Stay-At-Home Dads (SAHDs), you're a necessary and inspiring thread of our society. I know, I know, as informed people we shouldn't think it's admirable when a dad stays home and normal or expected when a mom does. But, guess what? We're NOT there as a society yet. And, even though the number of SAHDs has increased by 15% in the last 25 years, today's SAHDs still face a lot of deeply rooted judgement based in outdated gender expectations, and they are absolutely blazing a trail. So, thanks, SAHDs, for validating our intelligence and our passions. Thanks for teaching our children that women can earn and men can nurture. Thanks for redefining masculinity in a rejuvenating and sexy way. Thanks for being there, day after day after day. You rock. So hard. Check out how amazeballs my SAHD hubbie is. (He also makes me a green smoothie every morning and a killer chicken korma whenever I want, suckers!) Happy Father's Day to all the DOTYs out there!
By Annie I recently attended a "Sensitivity and Respect in the Workplace" seminar for my job. The speaker -- a lawyer, consultant, yoga teacher and mother -- was very intelligent and engaging, and I found her talk to be informative. She listed behaviors that merit legal action in regard to harassment, one being, "graphic commentary about an individual's body."
Huh. As a mother who has experienced three different pregnancies in three different work environments, my ears perked up. Surely this was a stopping point for "You look ready to pop!" and other such hugeness commentary. But, sadly, no. I was informed that while this type of conversation may be unprofessional and unwelcome, it does not fit the definition of harassment. I didn't want to monopolize the talk with my own agenda, so I thanked her for the clarification. But, inwardly, my mind was racing. Graphic commentary about an individual's body. Essentially, what does "ready to pop" mean? It means that your body looks so shockingly enormous and stretched to its limit that -- at literally any second -- a human being is going to burst forth from your abdomen or tear its way out of your helpless vagina. Your helpless vagina, mamas. Sounds pretty graphic and body focused to me. I'm not an overly sensitive asshole. I understand that this comment is typically said in good spirits as an attempt to show interest or make small talk. But, if you wouldn't tell a coworker, "Your spare tire is growing by the second!" or "Those fake boobs you got last month look positively squeezable!" then don't assume a pregnant woman wants to hear commentary on her changing body. Follow her lead, not your misconceptions. Oh, and you know when a pregnant woman especially doesn't want to hear that she looks ready to pop? When she's only 30 weeks pregnant. By Annie I have a cardboard box labeled with Sharpie on the top shelf of my closet: Mommy's Cry Box. In it, I place the paper projects that are too dear to discard. Hand-made cards with a lopsided cacophony of kid letters. Fingerpaintings, traced hands, the staple-bound memoirs of a six-year-old. Poems with rigid rhyme schemes and spilling-over sentiment. I love you, you love me, love, love, love, 1 2 3.
My husband affectionately named this Mommy's Cry Box because I told him I was collecting these family artifacts so that I could take them out and look at them when our children were grown up and gone. I imagine spreading them across the kitchen table and examining them the way an anthropologist analyzes precious findings -- piecing together a life from scraps of paper. My second child was one when I accepted a job offer in a city an hour away. I committed to being a full-time working mother with a cool career instead of a part-time adjunct instructor and bartender who always had mornings free for silver-dollar pancakes and Tupperware towers on the kitchen floor. When my son started talking, we went through a brief phase where my husband was "Daddy" and I was "Another Daddy." When I was home, at least. By Annie I woke up at 5:30 a.m. to hammer out 25 minutes on the elliptical before showering and getting all three kids ready to leave the house. I roused the surly 7-year-old ("I want to punch you in the ear" were her first words to me this morning...), pampered the mildly feverish and mucusy 3-year-old, and held the wiggly baby's soiled rear under the stream of the sink after a particularly messy diaper blowout that merited a bath we just didn't have time for. Still, determined, I left on time for my hour commute with a coffee in one hand and a green smoothie in the other. I was pitching a big idea to my boss today. And not just my regular boss, but the Big Boss, the one whose name is in the logo. I was ready. What's a MOTY to do? Absolutely nothing! By the time I discovered my sweater's extra polka dot, it was far too late to remedy the situation. I held my head high and pitched the crap out of that concept. Pun intended.
By Annie Did you get spit up on today? Have you dealt with an epic diaper blowout? Maybe you're experiencing dramatic postpartum periods? There is no shortage of reasons why you, as a mother, may be completely disgusting today. Whether you work in a trendy office environment like I do or are a busy SAHM like my fellow MOTYs, I highly recommend that you always, always check your jeans. By Annie Getting out of the house for my hour-long commute in the morning is never easy. With a nursing infant, a toddler who refuses pants, a second-grader fighting her own timeline, and husband who sleeps like he's locked in a K-hole, getting dressed and out of the door by 7:15 a.m. is easily the most stressful part of my day. Luckily, I work in a very casual office and typically wear jeans and a sweater, sometimes even a hoodie. But today, I had to give a major presentation to the entire company. I was already tense. And, considering that I'm still 10 pounds over my pre-pregnancy weight, finding something to wear was a considerable challenge. I woke up half an hour early, showered, and dressed in the one and only thing that fits me. Like clockwork, at 7:05, as I was holding Midge on my hip, trying desperately to wake my husband and daughter, without raising my voice enough to wake the toddler, Midge had a full-on diaper blowout...on my hip. So what's a MOTY to do? You guessed it!
By Annie Take a deep breath...can you smell it? Fall is in the air, mamas! The sky's a little bluer; the breeze, a little crisper. Starbucks is featuring Pumpkin Spice lattes. The season is upon us. And with it, come my favorite fashion essentials. Scarves! Jackets! Tartan prints! Mustards and wines and emeralds! And of course...boots! When my kids and husband rattled off exhaustive back-to-school lists, and we spent a stressful weekend walking in and out of every store in the mall (all three kids in tow) draining our bank account, I requested just one item for myself: a new pair of boots. It was to be my one splurge. Brown leather, tall enough that I could feel sassy, but sensible enough that I could walk across the uneven polished brick in my office. And, believe it or not, the stars aligned and I found the perfect pair on clearance, in my size, and I even had money left over to buy an infinity scarf. So, I was feeling pretty savvy this morning, armed with my new boots, infinity scarf, and plethora of sweaters that didn't fit over my pregnant belly last autumn and thus feel refreshingly new. I selected a striped sweater with whimsical hues and spent an extra moment dusting bronze shimmer across my eyelids. Even these idiots were fairly tame this morning, and I was able to get out of the house and on the road for my hour commute in plenty of time. I had an extra spring in my step, flipped my hair a little more than necessary. Smiled during my morning meetings. Until...
By Annie I never had a breastfeeding problem. All of my babies latched with ease immediately after birth, nursed on demand, grew chubby and happy and whole. Smooth sailing on a sea of milk. I could breastfeed with one hand and let the dog out/stir pots of chili/fix my older daughter’s hair with the other. I proudly considered Midge, my third and final baby, a breastfed girl. Until I realized, abruptly, she isn’t. This time around, I am at the start of a new career, working full time an hour away from home. After my six weeks of “short-term disability” (a stark contrast to the six months paid maternity I had with my first and the flexible, part-time schedule I had with my second), I returned to work with a fully stocked freezer that looked like a hybrid of Medela parts and Jenga pieces. I wore stylish easy-access tops and sneaked away from my desk two or three times a day to pump, producing 10-12 oz. a day. But, gradually, the time away from my baby affected my supply, and 10-12 oz. became 6-8 oz. and settled somewhere around 4-6 oz. I was producing 1-2 fewer bottles a day than Midge needed, the freezer stock rapidly depleted, and by the time she was 3 months, Midge was getting formula for most of her feedings. Yet, in my mind, because I never saw her drink the formula, I still had the image of a breastfed baby. She still feasted voraciously when I got home, fell asleep at the breast, and spent the wee hours suckling for comfort.
And really, supplementing didn’t bother me. I love breastfeeding and identify with the culture, but firmly believe that formula is a safe and nutritious alternative. My girl was healthy and content. But then, two weeks ago, I left for three days for a conference, and my milk supply plummeted. By Annie This past week, I had the opportunity to attend a conference for work. Now, let me preface this by saying that while I finished my master's three years ago and have been in the business world for almost two years now, I am not the kind of woman who "goes on business trips." I drive a really shitty Sunfire. I wear TOMS or flip flips to work every day, and until a year ago, I was still bartending on the weekends to make ends meet. The idea of a business trip was completely foreign to me. When my boss proposed I go, I briefly lamented leaving my four-month-old baby, toddler, and seven-year-old, but the feeling passed. Quickly. This was the most grown-up thing I'd ever been asked to do! I was getting hotel room! "Expensing" valet parking! And the keynote speaker was a bona fide celebrity. The night before I left, anxiety started creeping in. I'd never left the baby overnight. Poor Henry, at two and a half, wouldn't even understand I was leaving. And I was blatantly betraying Iris, whose school pictures were the second morning I'd be gone, and who needed a mother to fix her hair. And my husband Lee, well, he said the right things, but the terror in his eyes was palpable.
Still, I pushed those thoughts away, and focused on the miraculous concept that in a few short hours, I'd be in a brand new luxury hotel room entirely by myself. No kids. No lunches to pack, diapers to change, infants to nurse in the purple blackness of 4 a.m. Sure, the conference was only 77 miles away, but the idea of being alone in a hotel room was all the exotic I needed. (I'd often joked with Lee when birthdays and Mother's Days rolled around that what I truly wanted was a hotel room to myself.) |
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September 2017
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