“You? You have a kid? How old are you, anyway?”
It’s not the world’s most polite question, but then, it’s being asked by our 22 y.o. intern, a bright and likable young woman who is staring at me as if I just announced that I kept poisonous spiders in my desk drawer, or took pole dancing classes in my spare time.
And the truth is, it’s flattering to hear that a recent college grad assumed for months that those pictures on my desk were snapshots of a cute nephew.
The year is 2006, and I am a rock star in my field. Okay, a fledgling rock star. But at the age of 32, I am capable, highly compensated and called on to speak as an expert – HA! – on a comfortingly regular basis. What’s more, in a few very narrow subject areas, I actually am highly and uniquely qualified. It’s a combination of luck, an amazing boss/mentor and a willingness to kill myself with work.
It is also because I have been willing to neglect my husband, my health and my child to take on one more project, make one more Saturday meeting, squeeze in one more marathon conference call at eight o’clock on Tuesday.
It’s true. My son was born in December 2004. Three weeks later, I appeared in my office, sitter and baby in tow. I set up the port-a-crib and stuffed diapers in a filing cabinet drawer.
Looking back, I know what I was doing: in the workplace, I was supremely competent. Confined to the domestic realm, it was as if I’d been dropped in a foreign land. I didn’t speak the language; heck, I didn’t have a decent roadmap or a clue where to exchange currency. Sure, they took my Visa card, but it didn’t quite cover basic needs.
So I ran back to work, and pretended that I was doing just fine with new motherhood, thanks.
My career skyrocketed. My personal life fell to pieces. My child was a stranger who much preferred daddy, even though he’d obligingly ride on my hip when I took him to a work/social event where kids were welcome and mine was the only face he recognized.
Then the world shifted on its axis. My husband landed a killer job in a bigger city and off we moved. During the transition, I became a full-time mother. In fact, I became a full-time parent while my partner was 300 miles away, staring our new life.
And I realized, with a jolt, what I had been doing for the first two years of my child’s life.
I’m not against working moms in any fashion. In fact, I rather wish I still was one. I often feel naked when I meet people and admit that I’m a latter-day Donna Reed, sans pearls and pumps.
I’ve now traded my identity – the carefully crafted professional and public self – for something other. For a marriage that is now happy. For a relationship with my son that surprises and delights. For a chance at having another child, in oh say, 30 more weeks. For a life that feels balanced and sane, more often than not.
I want all those things abandoned back – the camaraderie of trusted colleagues, the feeling of accomplishment, the sense that I fit in the world outside my front door. But the siren song of cozy domesticity is intense. And even if my ability to navigate Home and Hearth is still slim, I’m not sure that I can go back.
When I left the workforce, I left things behind. Status, I suppose. But if I leave this life, I’m worried that I might just forfeit my soul.
