The following is a book-inspired blog contribution to the online bookclub, From Left to Write. I received the book from the publisher free-of-charge, however I was not compensated to write this entry. You can read what others had to say in reaction to the book here.
M.F. Chapman’s Take the Cake: A Working Mom’s Guide to Grabbing a Slice of the Life You’ll Love is a quick read that offers practical suggestions for moms to achieve a more “balanced” life. Chapman eschews the “mommy wars” and avoids any discussion of staying and working at home v. working outside the home, which allows this book to be relevant for all moms.
Now, I’m not a big fan of the word “balance.” I think it’s one of these “pie-in-the-sky” ideals that goes along with being “guilt-free” and “perfect.” I prefer terms like “less-harried,” reduced-guilt,” (except when it’s applied to food) and “increasingly comfortable with imperfection.” But as my mom always says, if you can take away one thing (from a book, a training, a talk, etc.) it hasn’t been a waste of time. And Chapman had more than one strategy in her book for improving one’s quality of life. I could easily have addressed her chapter on television watching, “unplug,” playing outside, “fresh air,” or nutrition, “eat well,” but those are all things that I feel fairly good about. I thought it would be more meaningful if I mined what is, perhaps, my greatest struggle as a parent:
GUILT.
The Guilt List
Chapman recommends that you: 1. Brainstorm all the different aspects of guilt you feel in relation to your child, spouse, friends, work and most importantly, self (I will focus on “child” here—otherwise this could reach novel proportions.); 2. Determine which truly have negative consequences and delete any that are “moderate or inconsequential when thinking about the big picture.” 3. Examine the remaining items and determine whether you can live with the guilt because the item is in service of something larger or you can’t live with the guilt and what you are going to do to change it.
So here goes…my guilt list (in no particular order):
1. Letting Sophia lounge in bed a little longer while I try to grab a couple extra minutes of sleep. Particularly since she has to go to the bathroom when she wakes up.
2. Not wanting to pretend with, read to, or complete a puzzle when I do fetch her from the crib. Particularly pre-caffeine.
3. Getting impatient with her as she dances around the room and I need her to get dressed so we will be on time for whatever comes next that day.
That’s three pangs of guilt before breakfast.
4. When we are out and about I feel guilty about underutilizing our post-diluvium basement playground. When we are in I feel guilty about not taking her somewhere fabulously stimulating and engaging that day.
5. Checking my email/hit count/FB on my iPhone (when I could be interacting with Sophia).
6. Setting Sophia up with a pile of books while taking a shower (when I could have taken one during her nap, but was too busy responding to emails, writing, etc.)
7. Not involving Sophia more in my household chores (cooking, laundry, cleaning, etc.) and letting her fend for herself while I do them.
8. Not giving Sophia a sibling.
9. Making a phone call or simply receiving one when Sophia is around.
10. Missing a “bath day” (because, as it is, I only wash her ever other day)
11. Playing with Sophia too much (not letting her have enough independent time).
12. Not playing with Sophia enough (see #8 not giving Sophia a sibling).
I detect a theme here. Okay, so my list is mostly about attention and active engagement and the constant question that plagues me: Am I giving her “enough” of me? I am fairly certain that this would be true whether I was working 16 or 60 hours/week (though I’d definitely be feeling it more if I was working full time). It never feels like enough.
Of course the minute I start doing playing with Sophia out of guilt and not genuine enthusiasm, it becomes inauthentic, to which I’m pretty sure all kids are fairly attune. In fact, I would venture to say that it is far better to let her play by herself (which she does enjoy) than to have me doing it out of guilt (and either neglecting my own needs, which breeds resentment, or neglecting our household needs, which creates a whole other host of problems) just to assuage my guilt. The right amount is probably whenever the spirit moves me (which it often does; I like to play), and not when it doesn’t. But I tend to ignore all evidence in support of this (that Sophie happily reads while I’m taking a shower, that Sophie is not deprived—she has plenty of opportunities to play with other children through playdates, school, outings, that Sophie is becoming increasingly independent and creative on her own) and only listen to this nagging inner voice that constantly berates me for not doing more.
To return to Chapman’s task: The fact of the matter is not one of these things would have a negative consequence…well, maybe if Sophie wet the bed that would kind of suck. But I don’t think Sophia is going to be sitting in therapy one day talking about the fact that her mother never paid any attention to her. In fact, what could happen instead is that she finds herself talking about how I didn’t give her enough space, how I wouldn’t give her opportunities to be bored and create…or worse…how I poisoned our relationship with leaked resentment that stemmed from my perceived need to constantly attend to her.
I know I need to chill out, back off, and deal with the anxiety that pops up as a result. I wish making dramatic changes in one’s psychology was as simple as making a list, but alas, it’s not. I take some comfort in knowing that awareness is an important first step in the right direction.
Showing posts with label work-life balance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label work-life balance. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Ode to Dad
I could not do what my husband does.
Most of his nights are restless. He gets up, showers, dresses and comes upstairs for a dose of Sophia before he leaves for work.
She is elated to see him. She asks him to read to her. To play with puzzles. She hands him pretend lollipops. She shares her stuffed animals. “This is YOU, daddy,” she tells him, handing him a large panda. “This is me,” she says, snuggling a smaller one.
Whether he has slept 8 hours or 8 minutes, he turns it on for her. He reads her a book, between bites of his breakfast. He combs her hair, while I wash my face. He puts on a tiger puppet show, while I change her diaper.
And then it’s time he should be leaving. She begs, she bribes; she wheels and deals.
But he has to go to work, so she lets him go.
Yes, he has to go to work, so he lets her go.
And Sophie and I are left to our devices (vices) for the day.
Her father is never far from her thoughts. If I point out a mother and baby in a book, she corrects me, “Actually, that’s the DADDY penguin.” I am not offended. I am touched. I am pleased.
After her nap, her expectation begins to rise. If he has walked to work that morning, and his car is still in the driveway, she’ll exclaim upon seeing the car, “Daddy’s HOME!” And I’ll have to correct her, “Actually, he walked to work this morning. His car is here, but he is not.”
She is disappointed. She consoles herself with thoughts of what she will do when daddy comes home. “When he comes home, he will play doctor with me.”
“Yes,” I say, “he will play doctor with you. You will lie on the couch and pretend to be the patient. He will examine your leg and find that it is broken.” (I’m not being morbid. She loves this.)
“Because I was doing this,” Sophie fills in, spinning around the room, dizzying herself. “And I fell down.” She mock-slumps to the floor.
“Yes,” I continue, “you fell down.” I scoop her up and lay her on the couch. “And so you need a needle shot.” I aim the medicine syringe at her knee and pretend to give her the shot. (Not medically accurate, perhaps, but it makes her happy.) “And he’ll wrap up your leg,” I add, winding an ace bandage around her.
She leaps up from the couch, satisfied with the promise of future medical attention by Doctor Daddy, and we get absorbed in some other meanwhile activity. Something that fills the time before Kevin comes home.
It is six thirty. He comes in through the back door while I am cooking dinner and Sophie is stealing slices of pepper off of the cutting board. “Pepper thief!” I exclaim.
He has had a hard day. I see it in the curve of his shoulders. The circles under his eyes. He’s tired. He’s sweaty from the walk home. He’s in a t-shirt, his work shirt wrapped around his waist. His face breaks into a smile. “Who’s a pepper thief?” he asks, grabbing her.
“I am!” she shrieks gleefully. She follows him into the bedroom to watch him change, and I can hear their sweet conversation from the kitchen.
“How was your day, Daddy?”
“Hard. How was yours?”
“Good. Mommy played doctor with me. She said YOU would play doctor with me when you get home.”
“Are you all healed?”
“No. I fell down. I need a needle shot.”
They go to the living room with an energy that has long left me, he plays with her. They pretend, they chat, they read until dinner is ready. I call them to the table.
He wrestles her into her high chair. He brings her a glass of milk. He sets the table and pulls out a bottle of wine.
“Can I have some vino?” Sophie asks. “No,” we both answer in unison. “Its an adult beverage,” he adds.
“Oh! That’s sounds good.” Sophie replies.
When we try to talk, sharing bits from our day…news heard, the “That Baby” report (as in, “you wouldn’t believe what that baby said today…”), our own experiences, Sophie interrupts, “Mommy, Daddy talk to ME, please.” (What we have trained her to do, rather than have her whine for attention.) He finishes his thought, turns to her, and incorporates her in the conversation.
“We are a whole family,” Sophie observes, happy to be included.
After dinner, I march us upstairs. “Let’s go, maggot,” I bark at Sophie, “Hup two three four, hup two three four.” And she marches up the stairs, her daddy at her heels.
“Read me a STORY, Daddy,” Sophie begs. The day has come full circle. We are all in my bed. I am changing Sophie out of a soggy diaper, her legs flailing in the air, as Kevin reads to her, holding the book over her head so she can see the pictures. I go to get the toothbrush and I hear Kevin tickling Sophie who alternately cries, “NO STOP TICKLING ME!” And, “MORE TICKLELS PLEASE!”
Part of me could be exasperated. It’s bedtime and he’s working her into a frenzy. But it’s THEIR time. And they are so happy together. I used to interrupt these moments. Now, I try not to (except when its really really late, or we have to wake up early the next day; then I play the heavy), because I have all day. But he has this.
We talk about work-life balance as if it is a female issue. As if we women have cornered the market on a divided self. Men are squeezed out of the debate by our resentment. It is assumed that they are fortunate to have the defined role of provider. It is assumed that they will accept their lot, working a second shift, playing second fiddle to mom, parenting around the edges of the day. As if they didn’t care every bit as much as we do about being present for and being a part of our children’s lives. As if they don’t feel that ache every time they walk away. As if they don’t wish they could “have it all.”
I appreciate your struggle.
I love who you are as a father.
I admire all that you do.
Most of his nights are restless. He gets up, showers, dresses and comes upstairs for a dose of Sophia before he leaves for work.
She is elated to see him. She asks him to read to her. To play with puzzles. She hands him pretend lollipops. She shares her stuffed animals. “This is YOU, daddy,” she tells him, handing him a large panda. “This is me,” she says, snuggling a smaller one.
Whether he has slept 8 hours or 8 minutes, he turns it on for her. He reads her a book, between bites of his breakfast. He combs her hair, while I wash my face. He puts on a tiger puppet show, while I change her diaper.
And then it’s time he should be leaving. She begs, she bribes; she wheels and deals.
But he has to go to work, so she lets him go.
Yes, he has to go to work, so he lets her go.
And Sophie and I are left to our devices (vices) for the day.
Her father is never far from her thoughts. If I point out a mother and baby in a book, she corrects me, “Actually, that’s the DADDY penguin.” I am not offended. I am touched. I am pleased.
After her nap, her expectation begins to rise. If he has walked to work that morning, and his car is still in the driveway, she’ll exclaim upon seeing the car, “Daddy’s HOME!” And I’ll have to correct her, “Actually, he walked to work this morning. His car is here, but he is not.”
She is disappointed. She consoles herself with thoughts of what she will do when daddy comes home. “When he comes home, he will play doctor with me.”
“Yes,” I say, “he will play doctor with you. You will lie on the couch and pretend to be the patient. He will examine your leg and find that it is broken.” (I’m not being morbid. She loves this.)
“Because I was doing this,” Sophie fills in, spinning around the room, dizzying herself. “And I fell down.” She mock-slumps to the floor.
“Yes,” I continue, “you fell down.” I scoop her up and lay her on the couch. “And so you need a needle shot.” I aim the medicine syringe at her knee and pretend to give her the shot. (Not medically accurate, perhaps, but it makes her happy.) “And he’ll wrap up your leg,” I add, winding an ace bandage around her.
She leaps up from the couch, satisfied with the promise of future medical attention by Doctor Daddy, and we get absorbed in some other meanwhile activity. Something that fills the time before Kevin comes home.
It is six thirty. He comes in through the back door while I am cooking dinner and Sophie is stealing slices of pepper off of the cutting board. “Pepper thief!” I exclaim.
He has had a hard day. I see it in the curve of his shoulders. The circles under his eyes. He’s tired. He’s sweaty from the walk home. He’s in a t-shirt, his work shirt wrapped around his waist. His face breaks into a smile. “Who’s a pepper thief?” he asks, grabbing her.
“I am!” she shrieks gleefully. She follows him into the bedroom to watch him change, and I can hear their sweet conversation from the kitchen.
“How was your day, Daddy?”
“Hard. How was yours?”
“Good. Mommy played doctor with me. She said YOU would play doctor with me when you get home.”
“Are you all healed?”
“No. I fell down. I need a needle shot.”
They go to the living room with an energy that has long left me, he plays with her. They pretend, they chat, they read until dinner is ready. I call them to the table.
He wrestles her into her high chair. He brings her a glass of milk. He sets the table and pulls out a bottle of wine.
“Can I have some vino?” Sophie asks. “No,” we both answer in unison. “Its an adult beverage,” he adds.
“Oh! That’s sounds good.” Sophie replies.
When we try to talk, sharing bits from our day…news heard, the “That Baby” report (as in, “you wouldn’t believe what that baby said today…”), our own experiences, Sophie interrupts, “Mommy, Daddy talk to ME, please.” (What we have trained her to do, rather than have her whine for attention.) He finishes his thought, turns to her, and incorporates her in the conversation.
“We are a whole family,” Sophie observes, happy to be included.
After dinner, I march us upstairs. “Let’s go, maggot,” I bark at Sophie, “Hup two three four, hup two three four.” And she marches up the stairs, her daddy at her heels.
“Read me a STORY, Daddy,” Sophie begs. The day has come full circle. We are all in my bed. I am changing Sophie out of a soggy diaper, her legs flailing in the air, as Kevin reads to her, holding the book over her head so she can see the pictures. I go to get the toothbrush and I hear Kevin tickling Sophie who alternately cries, “NO STOP TICKLING ME!” And, “MORE TICKLELS PLEASE!”
Part of me could be exasperated. It’s bedtime and he’s working her into a frenzy. But it’s THEIR time. And they are so happy together. I used to interrupt these moments. Now, I try not to (except when its really really late, or we have to wake up early the next day; then I play the heavy), because I have all day. But he has this.
We talk about work-life balance as if it is a female issue. As if we women have cornered the market on a divided self. Men are squeezed out of the debate by our resentment. It is assumed that they are fortunate to have the defined role of provider. It is assumed that they will accept their lot, working a second shift, playing second fiddle to mom, parenting around the edges of the day. As if they didn’t care every bit as much as we do about being present for and being a part of our children’s lives. As if they don’t feel that ache every time they walk away. As if they don’t wish they could “have it all.”
I appreciate your struggle.
I love who you are as a father.
I admire all that you do.
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