issue feature

(the mommy chronicles)

working mom

part-time working smom

single mother

stay-at-
home mom

mother-
to-be
Lydia Wilbanks, the working mom

I get asked a lot about being a working mother. I have three young children and run my own business—not such a common situation in the South. Mostly it’s younger women who ask, and it is with curiosity more than anything. But I take their inquisitiveness quite seriously because I don’t want them to think it’s easy or that “having it all” is the point or the goal. I take every chance I get to dispel the myth of the super woman. She doesn’t exist, at least not the way that television and the magazines have portrayed her. It is my opinion that our culture has done young women a great disservice by leading them to believe that you really can have it all.

I was coming of age in New Orleans during the 70’s when I first heard the term super women. I remember wondering about it, certain that it had nothing to do with anyone in my world. I thought my own mother was really great, but the term seem to imply something mythical, exaggerated and of celebrity status. No mom I knew or was related to fell into those categories, or so it seemed at the time.

As I moved through my college years and into my career in New York City, super women became a completely relevant term. It was used liberally and constantly to describe women who were moving up the corporate ladder (breaking ceilings along the way) and yet had a husband, children and a life. Photographs of them were everywhere. On television, in magazines and newspapers they were always beautiful, successful and very glamorous.

They had it all. (Sheri Lansing was one I remember the most. She became the first female CEO of a major film studio, Paramount Pictures.) The idea of super women came to represent the high bar; the standard by which we would all be judged. We were told we could have it all and if we didn’t, well we just weren’t trying hard enough.

What we came to find out is that many—if not most or all—of those early pioneering women who fell into the archetype of having it all, crashed and burned somewhere along the line. Or they woke up exhausted and unable to live the lie anymore and made changes. But it is difficult to go up against an entire culture such as ours, which is why many women are still trying to prove that it can be done. But it can’t. It is impossible. No woman is capable of being everything to everyone. Choices must be made and there is the rub.

Today, my definition of super women is quite different than it used to be. I have learned that they are the women who stay at home even though they would rather be working because they feel compelled to be the primary caregiver.

They are the ones who work even though they would rather be at home with their children, but they know they must provide. They are everyday women who do more for their children than they do for themselves and who understand that we can’t have it all, that something must give or everything and everyone suffers. They are willing to make their choices and honor the sacrifices that go along with them.

I believe motherhood is about sacrifice. It’s about doing things for my children that will promote their growth and health. Usually, but not always, that requires money, or time or emotion or all three. It’s also about sacrificing their needs, sometimes, to take care of myself. For me taking care of myself revolves around my work.

I work because I love to work. It is a vital part of who I am as a person. Without it, I would be a lesser mother. I would be far less valuable to them because I would have sacrificed an intrinsic element of my personality. How could I teach them to live up to their potential if I have given up mine? At the same time I make sacrifices in my work in order to spend time with my children. It really is a revolving door.

The question looms. How do you have a successful career and raise happy, healthy, well-adjusted children? My answer is always the same … I try to be good enough in all my capacities with hope that I can celebrate the high marks and make it through the low ones

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Kristen Hall, part-time working mom

6:30 a.m.: Good morning, Sunshine! It’s a good thing Emma is so cute, because 6:30 a.m. comes way too early! I breast feed Emma, and she is ready to go. Life is completely different with a child. I’m not sure what I did or thought or kept busy with before because almost every minute is now related to Emma.

7 a.m.: Breakfast time! Emma enthusiastically smacks her hands on her seat’s tray when she sees yogurt. Before I realize it, she has eaten a breakfast bar, a handful of blueberries, half a pear and 4 ounces of yogurt. For such a petite peanut, this girl can eat. I expected our children to eat us out of house and home, but not before their first birthdays. Half a cup of coffee (thanks, honey), and it’s clean up time. Diaper and outfit change, check.

7:30 a.m.: Time for a shower. Ah, five minutes of baby-free time. It may not seem like much but I’ll take what I can get. Even in the shower, I am planning my day around all the things that need to be accomplished. Gone are the days of free time.

8:30 a.m.: It’s only a half-day in the office, so my schedule is a bit more relaxed. I have an hour until the nanny arrives, and I really need to go to the store. Do I have time to get there and back before Emma starts to crash? I pack her up, but suddenly realize the living room floor needs vacuuming before everyone arrives this morning. Emma watches from her car seat. I’m sure she’s thinking, “Focus, lady! I thought we were going to the store.” Chore complete, I grab my purse, her diaper bag, a toy and my keys, and we’re off.

8:40 a.m.: As others will attest, the grocery store is interesting with children. Strangers say the most shocking things, providing their perspective into the most intimate parts of your life. Before children, I could walk around the store in sweet anonymity. Those days are over.

9:15 a.m.: We’re back and Emma is ready for her morning nap. I put her in bed and listen to her singing over the monitor. It is so endearing. I enjoy a brief moment of reflection, then begin to put away the groceries, clean up her breakfast mess and change into my work clothes. Too late, I hear our friend pull up to drop off her daughter. We chat about birthday parties and a book about baby miracle foods, a present I received for my birthday.

When my husband asked what I wanted, I couldn’t come up with a gift that was just for me. It bothered me since I don’t feel like I have become engulfed in mommyhood. I’m still a wife, artist, professional. Is it such a bad thing that I want fabric for baby dresses instead of a piece of jewelry? I’m not sure yet.

The nanny arrives and I run off to put away the groceries and change into my work clothes. I’m off to work—late as usual.

10:05 a.m.: Arrive at work and settle in for the day.

Many people think part-time jobs are the best of both worlds, and sometimes they are. They can also be the worst of both worlds—all the stress of full-time expectations with the financial stress of part-time pay. For me, work often offers a quiet escape from diapers, laundry and constant messes. That said, it does add considerable stress to my life. It’s a constant balancing act.

11:15 a.m.: Grab a quick lunch with my husband and head back to work. With only limited time in the office, I better make it count.

2:15 p.m.: Heading home for the day, and I am stressing about getting there on time. I need to relax. When I arrive, Emma is so happy to see me! It’s nice to have such a fan.

3 p.m.: Emma snacks on bananas (her favorite), and I decide it’s swim time. Baby pool ready, Emma and I head out to the front yard under the shade of a tree. She loves the water and splashes wildly in the pool.

This is what makes a part-time job worth the stress. It’s 3:15 in the afternoon, and I am out of my work clothes sitting in the front yard soaked with water. My daughter is in hydrophilic bliss and so am I.

6 p.m.: Meal time again! Yogurt, blueberries and avocado—what a healthy mess! We clean up, put on our pajamas and play for a bit before bed.

6:45 p.m.: Time for our bedtime book. We all crawl in the guest bed in Emma’s room for family book time. She loves it and so do we.

7 p.m.: Emma heads off for (hopefully) a full night’s sleep.

7:45 p.m.: Dinner: steak, fingerling potatoes, vegetables, wine and blueberry crumble for dessert. Thanks to my sweet hubby for my birthday dinner.

10:15 p.m.: Emma wakes up briefly, but thankfully returns to sleep with her binkie.

10:30 p.m.: Night-night for Mom and Dad. I fall asleep, cautiously and fitfully as usual. Most nights are now relatively stress-free, but one never knows what the night may bring. I once heard when you become a parent, you become scared of the dark again. There is definitely some truth to that. Tomorrow holds a full day, so here’s hoping tonight is restful.

Motherhood has been wonderful. Bringing a life into the world is an amazing and overwhelming experience, and one that I am pleased I waited for a bit. It’s quite a job and when the nights get long and exhausting, I’m glad I don’t long for something else.

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Brandi Rhea, single mother

6:15 a.m.: The alarm clock goes off and I hit snooze. When it goes off again I think, “Why can’t this be Saturday so I can sleep late?” I slowly crawl out of bed at 6:25, then turn on the local news and stare at the TV before waking Charley.

6:35 a.m.: Charley and I stand in the kitchen looking for breakfast. We just look at each other, give half-smiles and say nothing. I’m not a morning person and prefer not to talk first thing in the morning. As Charley gets older, she is becoming less of a morning person too. Charley grabs a Pop Tart. I know, I know. It’s not the healthiest breakfast, but typically eggs, toast, fruit and milk are not weekday options. I grab yogurt and a glass of orange juice, then watch the news for a few minutes.

6:45 a.m.: Still no talking. Take shower and dress.

7:30 a.m.: Charley comes in my bedroom and asks, “What do you think about this outfit?” I say, “It’s cute. Don’t forget to brush your teeth.” 7:50 a.m.: Out the door and on my way to take Charley to her Aunt Taylor’s house to spend the day. So far, summer has been super busy for Charley with trips to see grandparents, weekends at the lake and sleepovers with friends. On the way to Taylor’s we don’t talk much, but I do tell her we need to talk about the month of July because her calendar is full, and she is going to be in Birmingham only one week. She says OK. More silence.

8 a.m.: We arrive at Taylor’s, say our “I love you’s,” and Charley runs to the door with a big smile on her face. Taylor is my ex-husband’s sister that Charley a b s o l u t e l y adores, as do I. Taylor and I wave at each other and smile, and I’m off to work. 8:10 a.m.: I arrive at work, unlock my office, and check my email and voicemail.

8:30 a.m.-5 p.m.: Work is typical today. I’m in meetings, preparing for future meetings, working on projects and going to lunch with a co-worker. 4 p.m.: I get my daily text from Charley.

Charley: What time r u picking me up?
Me: 5:15
Charley: k - btw, whats for dinner
Me: idk, what do you want?
Charley: idk. can we go out to eat?
Me: we’ll talk about it when i pick you up
Charley: k, i luv u
Me: Love u too.

5:15 p.m.: I pick Charley up from Aunt Taylor’s, and it is a non-stop jab fest all the way home. She catches me up on her day. Then we talk about her being a bridesmaid in Taylor’s wedding, including what dresses, shoes and accessories she should wear to the different events. She asks me what I’m wearing to the wedding, will I pull my hair back or leave it down, and so on. Even though Taylor is my ex-sister-inlaw, we have a wonderful relationship.

5:35 p.m.: We arrive at home and turn on the TV to watch re-runs of Reba. Charley loves to imitate Barbara Jean.

6 p.m.: Charley and I decide to go to the local Mexican restaurant for dinner. We arrive at the restaurant and talk about her plans for July. I pull out a calendar to let her see that she will be out of town nearly each week. Between church camp, golf camp and going to the beach with grandparents, her month is extremely busy. When she sees her activities on paper, her eyes get wide and she says, “Wow, I’m not seeing you and Dad a lot in July.” I ask her if this is too much for her to do and she says, “No, but I’m glad that I am seeing it written down.” She looks up at me and says, “I’ll miss y’all.” I confirm that her dad and I will miss her too.

7:30 p.m.: We arrive home from dinner and begin to settle in for the night and get ready for the next day. We play the Wii, watch TV and do a few household chores.

10:30 p.m.: Bedtime. When I was asked to diary “a day in the life of a single mom,” I was somewhat taken aback at being defined as a single mom. I suppose in the literal sense, I am a single m o m because I am divorced and have a child, but I have never used that p a r t i c u l a r phrase to d e f i n e myself. I believe this is because of the relationships that have been fostered for the best interest of Charley. The early decisions Barry, her father, and I made about what kind of post-divorce relationship we wanted to have for the benefit of Charley have helped enable her to be a well-rounded, loving, happy child. I never expected the decisions we made for the sake of Charley’s well-being would also benefit our own well-being.

Most importantly, we come together as a team to love and support Charley. This team extends far beyond her dad and me to include a wonderful stepmother, two sets of loving grandparents, one set of step-grandparents, an aunt, an uncle and countless friends whose love has been unwavering. There is no such thing as “single” when it comes to raising Charley. Barry and I are very blessed to have a core team of supporters that just want the best for our daughter.

Charley is without a doubt the best part of my life, but not the only part. Her dad and I half her in terms of time, so when she is with him I spend time with friends and have a fulfilling social life. I’ve learned to balance life as a mother and as a young, single adult. It is very important to me that I have the best of both worlds. Over time I expect my life will change, and I will get married and possibly have more children. Regardless of my situation I’ll always make every effort to have the most rewarding life possible for myself and those I love.

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Katie Caldwell, stay-at-home mom

5:42 a.m.: Waking up to a quiet house has become a rarity the past four months. But this morning I awake on my own—neither crying nor cooing rouses me from sleep. Curious, I tiptoe across the hall into the nursery and peer into the crib. Weaver is on his tummy, where apparently he’s slept soundly for almost seven hours. Despite our repeated attempts to adhere to the “Back to Sleep” movement, Weaver is adamant about sleeping in a position that would give most pediatricians a nervous twitch. Relieved to see him breathing and thrilled he slept past his usual waking time of 4 a.m., I go back to bed for more much-needed sleep. As my head hits the pillow, I hear stirring on the monitor. So much for sleeping in …

6:08 a.m.: Wide awake now, the first thing on Weaver’s agenda is breakfast! Lee gets him each morning and brings him to our room for his first feeding. After his tummy is full, we enjoy his smiles and coos, acknowledging his attempts at conversation with us. His smiles and cheerful spirit make sleep deprivation tolerable. When Lee begins getting ready for work, Weaver and I head to the kitchen so I can have my breakfast.

8:30 a.m.: After saying goodbye to Daddy and enjoying more play time, we wind down for a nap. This part of our day is unpredictable because Weaver is not a consistent napper. Some days I have to wake him up for his next feeding; most days I can clock his naps at 45 minutes. This fact forces decisions one would not normally make. Do I spend the quiet moments reading or resting? Do I take a shower or straighten the house? Today I opt for personal hygiene, as we have an outing on the agenda. As I begin brushing my teeth, Weaver starts crying. Since it’s only 9 a.m. and I still have lots to do before we leave, I place him in his car seat just outside my bathroom door, hoping he’ll go back to sleep as I dry my hair. One certainly gets more creative with a child that’s not a good daytime sleeper!

10 a.m.: If there is one thing having a baby has taught me, it’s to be flexible with arrival and departure times. Our play date officially begins now, but of course I’m running late. I can’t imagine what our mornings would be like if I had returned to work; I would never be on time. Leaving the house requires so much: the diaper bag packed with enough bottles for feedings we’ll miss while we’re away, extra diapers and wipes, outfits for any accidents we may encounter—and that’s just when he’s going to be with me. It would be even more stressful if I had to outline his routine with a caretaker. I marvel at the women who continue working after having a baby— they have it together so much more than I do! By 10:15 we’re ready; off we go to the pool and lunch with friends!

1:45-5:30 p.m.: We arrive back home for Weaver’s 2 p.m. feeding. Afterwards, we have activity time. Since Weaver is not independent enough to play on his own, he must spend a lot of time in baby contraptions when I am not holding him. His short attention span dictates that much of our afternoon is spent moving around—from his activity mat to the bouncy seat to his Bumbo, and finally to the swing for a nap as we await Daddy’s arrival home from work.

6-8:30 p.m.: Weaver eats again at 6 p.m., usually in the form of a bottle so that Lee can have some time with him while I put dinner together. While we eat, Weaver entertains himself in his ExerSaucer. About 7:30 p.m., Weaver’s bedtime routine begins: bath, book, bottle, bed. This takes about 30 or 45 minutes, and he’s asleep by 8:30 p.m. Now I wander the house, picking up random burp cloths, preparing bottles for the next day, starting the ever-present load of laundry. I am often worn out at the day’s end, but staying home with our little boy is such a joy— this time with him is fleeting. When I was pregnant, many people asked me how long I would take for maternity leave. I was happy sharing that I would be staying home to do the most important job I’ll ever have: raising my child. I don’t remember anyone arguing. I don’t question my decision to be a stay-athome mom, but as with any job, I question my performance. Am I holding him too much? Reading aloud too little? Playing music enough? Providing adequate social interaction? I realize that no one will give me a formal performance evaluation, but I still pray for guidance to raise Weaver well. And where I fall short, and I will fall short, I trust that God’s grace will fill in the gaps.

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Susan Lewis Smith, mother-to-be

I was delivering a presentation to a group of undergraduates, talking about Herman Melville’s gory account of the butchering of a sperm whale, when my head left my body and floated away. I distinctly remember the almost pleasant sensation of being able to observe myself behind the podium as my head bounced and bobbed between the fluorescent lights on the ceiling like a carelessly tethered balloon. I, I thought to myself, have had entirely too much coffee. It occurred to me later that I might have a brain tumor or a heart defect, but it was almost a week before I discovered that what I did have would require elastic pants, underwear large enough to run up the mast of the Pequod and the better part of 10 months to resolve.

Motherhood—or more specifically mothers themselves—has always puzzled me. I’ve never understood how otherwise dignified and decorous women could suddenly become the kind of people comfortable discussing picklepoop, comparing surgical scars or saying words like “nipple” and “cervix” in mixed company.

Talking to women who were already mothers, I had the sensation of being taken behind a previously unseen velvet curtain and being initiated into some sort of private sorority for those who procreate. But with their nearly constant reminders that “life as you know it will never, ever, be the same,” came a kind of mounting dread that I would never be the same and that the identity formerly known as “Susan” was something best left at the bottom of the diaper pail. I remembered reading Kate Chopin’s The Awakening years earlier and desperately hoping that there was some middle ground between Adele Ratignolle’s smothering maternity and Edna Pontellier’s desperate quest to recover some sense of self in the midst of a stifling family life. In short, I was afraid.

I was afraid that the sense of identity I had just rediscovered when I went back to graduate school and started making plans to answer a calling of my own would wash away in a tempest of breast milk and diapers and obsession with the goings on in my church’s nursery. I had just adjusted to the idea of not having children at all and the surprising news that I had jumped the gun in diagnosing my own infertility collided sharply with the wall of steely resignation I had built around my hope. As I have always done, I looked to the wisdom of my own mother for comfort.

She reminded me of a simple axiom she has been telling me since childhood. “In this life you can have it all,” she said, “just not at the same time.” And she told me that she would help me and that I could do it. (I’ve never understood it, but when my mother tells me I can, it makes it so.) With that encouragement, the voices chanting that I would “never be the same” were drowned out by my husband’s astonishing confidence in my small brain and the joy my family expressed at the prospect of having a new member. My father-in-law said it best when he said, “Well, you won’t ever be the same. You’ll be better.” I believed him.

Finally, one day as I sat in class at the end of the fall semester, I felt an almost imperceptible flutter that reminded me of the lightning bugs I lovingly imprisoned between my hands as a child. At first, I thought I was on my way to not only being the kind of person who says “nipple” in public, but also the kind who burps audibly in a quiet classroom. When I felt it again, I realized it was the tiny movement of my baby as she floated and swam to the sounds of William Wordsworth’s poetry being read by my professor. And just like my father said he felt when he first saw me, I had a powerful realization that she was mine and I was hers and we were in this together.

Suddenly, I became fascinated with my own family history. I listened compulsively to Hank Williams and Bill Monroe, trying to establish some kind of connection to the childhoods of my parents. I plagued my in-laws with questions about their families and their childhoods. I brought home my husband’s great-grandmother’s china and silverware. My thoughts were on this little person we were about to meet and what kind of legacy we were presenting to her. It’s a hodgepodge, really. In addition to the other colorful characters who continue to shape our own identities, we’re giving her a bootlegger, a Tennessee riverboat captain, at least two great Southern ladies and about a half-dozen cowboys, one of whom only rode the range as he could see it from the limb of his Chinaberry-branch horse in Sabinal, Texas. We decided to name her after her grandmothers, hoping that what we’re really doing is imparting some aspect of their characters along with their names.

These days, her little kicks don’t feel like lightning bugs as much as ornery billy goats. Some days, I can see my entire body move with the concussion of her tiny fists and feet. I can’t wear proper shoes anymore and I feel confident parking in the “expectant mother’s only” spaces at the supermarket. A sea of little pink and white dresses, onesies, bonnets and booties washes over the bed in her room, representing the best wishes of our friends and families and their cherished hopes for the future of our little girl. I’ve packed a little bag with the tiny rosebud booties my mother-in-law gave her and the daygown embroidered with tiny pink rosebuds my mother bought for her to wear home. The fear I had about losing my own identity has been overcome by the joy I have at finally meeting my first little baby with my husband and introducing her to the rest of her family. I think I’ll have it all. Maybe just not all at the same time.

Carrie Ella Smith was born on July 3—one week after her mother completed this story.

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January Birmingham, Alabama

  

 
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