SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA JOB MARKET : Back at Work: A Mother’s Diary : Diary: Hopes for a perfect life--with baby and career--are almost immediately thwarted.
Jan. 4, 1991: Six-pound, 11-ounce Erin is born, a healthy baby girl and minor medical miracle who came into being after seven difficult years of effort and the latest medical technology. Her appearance was an unalloyed joy, although my husband and I debated what her last name should be. I am her mother.
April 4: Erin is 3 months old, and during her life I haven’t wanted to think about lawyering. I love being a mom, but I’m a little jealous of my husband, also a lawyer, and his freedom to come and go without regard to my little darling’s feeding schedule.
July 7: Erin is 6 months, 3 days old. Tomorrow I go back to work, or rather, return to my old job. I feel a kind of excited anticipation, the way I used to before the first day of school after summer vacation. We have a great baby-sitter, and, taking no chances, I’ve rented myself a beeper.
July 8, a.m.: I return to work, apparently suffering a form of utopian dementia. I believe I might be on the verge of living the perfect life. I figure I’ll only work Monday, Wednesday and Friday, an arrangement that didn’t come easily. Pre-Erin, I often worked 60- to 80-hour weeks. I’m the first so-called “trial-line” lawyer that has ever tried going part-time. But at least one manager (not surprisingly, a mother) was eager not to duplicate the so-called mommy track that has dogged part-timers elsewhere.
July 8, p.m.: Trouble already. While I was on leave, a supervisor planned to change jobs, which would probably open a management slot in my division. Office scuttlebutt, soon confirmed, says I’m among the prospects. My boss welcomes me back and says, basically, I’d have to go full time to get promoted.
I am stunned. Of course, I want the job. It means more responsibility, added prestige and, last but not least, a lot more money.
July 12: Yet another day of agonizing. The problem isn’t simply how many hours I’ll be able to spend with Erin--eating, playing, bathing, etc. I’m also the Official Worrier. Someone has to be concerned about Erin’s daily schedule, her sleep pattern, her caloric intake, her bowel movements. Someone has to be free to call or visit the doctor when necessary, to read Dr. Spock and Penelope Leach, to determine if Erin’s nap times should be her choice or ours, and to decide when and what should be her next solid food. In our family, as in most I know, these concerns are mine. Is it breast-feeding? Biology? Who knows? One of us has to stay flexible enough to do it.
Silver lining: My utopian dementia is miraculously cured.
July 18: I cuddle my baby. How could I even consider full-time work? Well, for one thing, I’ve been a lawyer a lot longer than I’ve been a mom--12 years, to be exact--and I know how to be a lawyer. The looming unknown of parenthood is a bit daunting. Also, now that I’ve been back to the office, I’ve learned a surprising fact: Despite sometimes excruciating anxiety on the job, it’s easier than being home. Even the thorniest legal dilemma doesn’t compare with the frustration of hearing Erin wail over some mysterious and elusive distress. At work, I can make a phone call, go to lunch with friends, have a quiet cup of tea, even use the bathroom without worrying that my daughter will eat the phone cord, scald herself or tumble down the stairs when I’m not looking.
I feel more than a little guilty admitting this. A side of me desperately longed to be a real mom, like my mother was, like June Cleaver was in my own little “Leave it to Beaver” home. Where are my maternal instincts?
And how come my husband doesn’t think these thoughts? I envy his ability to leave every morning, untroubled that his baby is being cared for by others. He seems to manage the career/family tug-of-war quite easily. He’s tired, but his career is soaring.
If I don’t go after the promotion, will I resent him? Worse, will I resent Erin? I wonder if Barbara Bush was right. On my deathbed, will I feel more fulfilled if I just say no to any promotion that makes me spend less time with my baby? I’m relieved when my mother, who spent 35 selfless years at home with me and my six siblings, says it’s OK to take the job.
A possible solution: My husband offers to partly assume the Official Worrier mantle by working only four days a week himself. A fair proposition, but not terribly practical or realistic.
Aug. 5: After weeks of uncertainty, I propose to my office that I get the promotion and still work part time. I felt I owed this to myself, to Erin and to other present and future mothers (and fathers, for that matter). I also sincerely believed that in this age of faxes, laptops and modems, the job could easily be structured to accommodate a part-time schedule. Maybe it’s another bout of utopian dementia. Am I having a relapse? Nah. I’m sure my proposal will be rejected.
Sept. 3: The good news is my proposal is still being considered. The bad news is there’s no promotion.
The guy I would have replaced couldn’t find another acceptable job. We are all saved by the clanking deus ex machina of the recession. In the clutches of this monster, I plan to enjoy two days off each week with my little girl.
Maybe I just wasn’t ready to trade the incomparable joy of those precious days for career enhancement. The excited optimism of my first day at work is now tempered. Along the way, I learned a little more about myself, my baby, my husband and everything else. For now, I’ve put my quest for the perfect life on hold.
But you never know. Utopian dementia strikes without warning, and there is no cure.
