Work it, mama

I love being a working mom.  I wasn’t always sure I would, and the first few weeks back after maternity leave were a challenge met with many tears and pangs of guilt.  However, at some point I started to hit my stride and I actually remember the exact moment when things really turned around.  I was leaving the office after a long day, and I opened my car door to hoist my laptop bag into the backseat.  It landed on top of a teething toy that squeaked loudly in protest.  I immediately and involuntarily smiled and was filled with a sense of purpose and determination.  “I’m doing this,” I thought.  This was my life, and I was going to embrace it in all its craziness.  Of course there is still guilt and second guessing that periodically creeps in, but I’m going to go ahead and assume that happens to every mom no matter what. 

Continuing to pursue my career is a personal decision and one that has just, well, worked for our family.  I love my job and my employer and find my work intellectually stimulating and rewarding in so many ways.  I love putting on heels in the morning and bustling into an office building with a hopeful and naive notion that I can change the world.  I love meetings and presentations, projects and challenges.  I love being hit with a surprise twist in a timeline and configuring a new strategy.  I love getting to know new people and collaborating to solve a problem and create incredible results. 

And of course I believe, first and foremost, that my decision provides value for my child, otherwise I wouldn’t do it no matter how much I loved it.  This can’t be said enough times so I’ll say it again: this is a personal decision, and I have all the respect in the world for moms who choose to stay home full time.  I couldn’t do what you do!  For our family, my husband and I believe our son benefits from the independence and social interaction a school setting can offer, as well as the community of wonderful caregivers he is exposed to.  I also believe as he gets older I can be proud of the example I’m setting for him of hard work and balance.

In the most lighthearted sense, the true upside of being a working mom comes in the sheer humor of it all.  On most days my life can be described as an ongoing hilarity of contrast.  I can’t count the number of times I’ve found myself hunched over the sink in the laundry room, scrubbing a bodily function out of crib sheets while wearing a skirt.  The irony is not lost on me, and in my hurry I often pause to chuckle to myself.  I, like so many others, have left work for holiday parties at school, conducted conference calls at home with a baby on my hip, and followed up children’s bedtime stories with a little light reading on the latest work emergency.

I recall one instance when my son was a year old, and I was preparing to facilitate a morning meeting with some executives who are far more important than I could ever hope to be.  I ducked into the restroom at work for a quick last minute check and discovered an undeniable dribble of dried up snot on the shoulder of my black jacket.  I frantically tried to remove it with paper towels, concentrating on perfecting the delicate water to towel ratio so as to effectively remove the stain without having paper particles disintegrate onto my clothes.  Another woman came into the restroom, took one look at me and smiled.  “We’ve all been there,” she said.  “Enjoy every minute of it.”

I think of that encounter often to remind myself to be grateful and reflective in moments like these rather than letting the stress and fear of embarrassment overcome me.  I can choose to be frustrated when I find streaks on my pants from some excited banana hands, or I can relish in the memory of my morning and look forward to the time I’ll spend with my son that afternoon.  These things are humanizing, and they are perfect representations of real life.  As my restroom comrade wisely put it, “We’ve all been there.”  They say if you’re intimidated by a group of people you should imagine them in their underwear.  I prefer to envision their home lives, punctuated with scenes of children throwing tantrums amid the chaos of getting dinner on the table.  Regardless of who we are or what we do for a living, these things are included in our common denominator, which is really a lot more common that we let ourselves think.

The things that keep us real keep us connected and relatable, and there is nothing more humbling for me than being a working mom.  When I see another woman heading into work in the morning with a laptop on one shoulder and a breast pump bag slung over the other shoulder I have to stop myself from offering an enthusiastic high five.  “You’re doing it!” I want to shout excitedly to her.  “WE are doing it!!  Isn’t it amazing?!  WE are amazing!”  But instead of playing the part of the crazy woman in the parking lot before the kind people of the world have been allowed their caffeine, I generally just smile to myself and collect this as another piece of encouragement for this incredible journey. 

We're rocking it

“How do you do it?”  The question came from across the table during a lunch break at work.  I paused from blowing the steam off my leftovers to address my friend intelligently:  “Huh?”  “How do you have time to cook dinner every night?” she went on.  “I mean, along with everything else?”  I looked down at the forkful of last night’s meal suspended in my hand.  “This?” I replied.  “This is just…life.”    I didn’t know how else to answer.  If there was one person who, in my mind, was juggling an impossibly full plate, it was the woman sitting across from me.  How in the world could she ask me that question?  Didn’t she realize how amazing she was?

I started thinking through the achievements of some of my friends.  The questions came rapidly and with the same consistent theme.  How does she…?

…work full time and take care of 2 (3, 4…) babies?

…stay at home with her kids and find all those fun family activities to keep them busy?

…work multiple jobs?

…take care of her kids herself?

…find time to train for a marathon?

…manage completing her master’s degree while working?

…look so fresh and energetic every day when I know she has a newborn at home?

…always seem to be working on another professional designation?

…get all those books read?

…start her own business?

I drew two conclusions from this.  1) I know some downright talented and brilliant women, and that is an honor.  2) It’s time we start giving ourselves some credit.  Chances are someone else is impressed with your life.  To someone else you look like you have it all together.  As you go through the motions of your day, distracted by the thought of the unfolded laundry at home, someone else is admiring your ability to get things done.  When you’re struggling to remember what you needed to add to the grocery list, someone is in awe of your organizational skills.  And despite the turmoil you felt just trying to get out of the door this morning, someone really liked the outfit you chose.

How could these perceptions be so different?  How is it that when I don’t feel like I’m doing enough, a friend can catch me completely off-guard by saying with simple conviction, “You do so much.”   Is it possible that the version of ourselves we present to the world is so different from the harsh reality of our true broken lives?  I don’t think so.  Instead, it’s just that we cut others so much more slack than we give ourselves.  We set our own bar so high and assume everyone around us is jumping over it, when in reality they’re just trying to survive, too.  People who spend a lot of time with us – family and close friends – really do know us, so we should trust them when they say we’re knocking it out of the park.

It’s time I pause and give myself the occasional pat on the back for the things I do well.  I choose to spend my time doing things that I value for myself and my family.  The choices we all make in that same effort are unique, which gives us a great opportunity to be proud of one another.  And at the same time, I need to give myself grace for those other things that can creep in and make me feel like I’m failing.  So I don’t get down on my hands and knees and scrub my kitchen floor every week like my grandma always did.  My windows have fingerprints on them, and my closet needs to be organized.  So what?  I can admire my neighbor’s shiny windows, and she can compliment my flower pots (if spring ever arrives!).   

No matter who you are, you’re doing something that someone else respects and admires.  There is someone looking at your life and saying, “How do they…?”  So keep doing it.  We all need to be encouraged by the successes of one another, and in some cases it may give us the confidence to try something new ourselves.

And equally as important as rocking what you do well, tell someone else when they’re rocking it, too.  We all need to hear it.  I was having an incredibly blah day when my dear friend’s amazement at my ability to steam broccoli turned it around.  So go ahead, tell that co-worker or friend that she’s doing a great job at life, that her children are well behaved, or just that you love her sweater or she got her eyeliner on straight.  We need each other to help point out the small victories worth celebrating.  I made dinner last night, and I’m eating it again for lunch today.  And I’m proud of that.

Stay here

“Mommy, stay here.”  These words rise sweetly and tentatively from a tiny voice as I prepare to depart his room after the bedtime routine has concluded.  We’ve already read “one more story” and sung “one more song,” and it really is time for him to go to sleep.  Not to mention that I inevitably need to clean up the kitchen, fold the laundry, or get my laptop back out to finish up some work.  However, there is something undeniably appealing about being needed, and there is nothing that can compare to the simple and pure way a child needs his mommy.  Either that or I’m a total softie, because he gets me every time.

I just need you to stay here.  I am instantly taken back to my early childhood when I often made the same request of my mother.  I would wake up in the night after a bad dream or during a thunderstorm and rouse that poor woman from her well-earned rest.  I wanted to go back to my bed where it was comfortable and warm, but I needed her to be there, too.  Somehow her very presence brought me such comfort that it could overcome my fears and allow me to drift back to sleep.  The monsters seemed less real, the thunder more distant, as long as she was sitting next to my bed.  My memories of these instances are somewhat hazy at this point, but I do remember one thing very clearly – the way my mother acted.  She never lost patience with me.  She never questioned my fear or made me feel silly for being afraid.  She never complained about being tired or needing sleep.  She sat with me in the dark, talking if I wanted to talk, or completing an investigation of the first floor if I requested to know for sure that no one had broken in.  She was affirming and comforting, and most importantly she was there.

Now that I am a mother myself, one thing has become abundantly clear to me: my mother is a saint.  I learn more and more each day through experiences I have with my son what she really did for me, and I am absolutely floored.  It first hit me during the early weeks when I was up every two hours for feedings and feeling a sense of helplessness that went way beyond sleep deprivation.  I assumed I must be doing something wrong – there was simply no way it was this hard.  Countless women before me couldn’t have done this and survived.  When my mom came to visit for a few days just after my son was born, I remember looking to her pleadingly with tears in my eyes.  She simply smiled knowingly and reassured me, “It gets better.” 

And so she was right.  It continues to get better, and so much harder too.  I know I’m just in the beginning stages, and I will have many more sleepless nights ahead of me.  But I now understand why my mother never reprimanded me for being needy or focused on her own needs.  It didn’t occur to her.  She was my mom, and it was her job to comfort me like no one else could.  There is joy and affirmation in that responsibility, and I love it.  I cannot begin to repay my mom for the ways she cared for me as a child.  Instead, I will live my appreciation by following the example she set with my own family.  I pledge to always be there when my son needs me. To scare away nightmares and cuddle during a storm.  To stock up on nightlights and stuffed animals.  To provide comfort when he’s sick.  To pack lunches and volunteer for room parties.  To help with homework and cheer him on at the game.  And when he requests it, I will happily lie next to him until he falls asleep.  It’s a small price to pay to be someone’s hero.

No more sick days

I had a stomach bug last week that hit me hard, but thankfully, the immediate impact seemed to be fairly short-lived.  I was quickly on to a couple days of crackers and toast until I could get my head around the idea of eating an actual meal. As I was propped up in bed in a semi-conscious state praying for relief I discovered that request was intermingled with an even more fervent one: “Please don’t let my husband or son get this.”  It’s then that it occurred to me: I will never have another sick day again. 

 

Sure, I stayed home from work the next day to rest, recover, and hopefully get something in my system.  But say the words “sick day,” and my mind conjures images from my childhood of laying on the couch all day watching re-runs of Saved by the Bell while my loving mother tried to keep me hydrated.  But that’s not my reality anymore.  A sacrifice of being in a committed relationship and/or being a parent is that you are never the first person in your mind.  (And if you are, you’re probably doing it wrong.)  I didn’t make some valiant and selfless decision that I would behave this way and thereby earn  human of the year recognition, it just happens naturally when you love someone.  There are people in all our lives we would take a bullet for, or a stomach bug, and consider it a privilege.

 

So inevitably, I found myself mentally cataloguing all the items I had come into contact with in the last 24 hours – clothing, surfaces, sheets, blankets.  Before I knew it, my head was lifted from the couch and I was doing internet  searches to the tune of “how to prevent spreading the stomach bug,” and “how to kill norovirus.”  Even stronger than my disdain for being sick myself was the dreadful thought of a) cleaning up after and comforting a 2-year-old who wouldn’t know what hit him, or b) losing my partner in crime to the same bout of illness that had rendered me useless to him the night before.  I actually find the image humorous – me, laying on the couch in a mismatched collection of pajama pieces, sweatshirts, and blankets, diligently researching and devising a plan to conquer this bug on behalf of the men of my household.  Clearly, a woman with a greasy ponytail donning a delightful mix of fleece and flannel must be taken seriously.

 

First on my list: wash all sheets, blankets, and clothing in the sanitary cycle on the washer and the hottest dryer setting they can stand.  Mind you, these are by far the longest cycles our beloved washer/dryer duo has to offer, so I had plenty of time to calculate my next move.  But I couldn’t do anything else before washing my hands.  And singing the alphabet while I was doing it, because that’s how long the website said it would take to kill the germs.  Oh, and as I’m walking through the kitchen to finally pour my pitiful self some ginger ale, I notice the dishwasher needs to be emptied.  If I wash my hands for long enough I’m sure it’s okay for me to get that minor chore out of the way as well.  Scrub, scrub, “A, B, C, D….”

 

It’s now time for me to rest from this exertion and try a few saltines.  But of course I can’t just sit there – there has to be something else I could be getting done.  Enter laptop.  One and a half hours later I’m caught up on email and put out a few minor work fires (smolders, really).  I then remember I have an insurance designation exam coming up in a couple weeks, so it’s probably time to crack that book.  What better time to do it than when I’m destitute in my living room with nothing else to do but wash my hands all day.  After some quality time reading up on defined benefit pension plans, the laundry needs my attention again so I’m up and about, starting another load (did I use both the living room throws last night, or just one?  Better safe than sorry…). 

 

While I’m up, I might as well get to work on the rest of the cleaning plan I had devised in my early morning strategy session.  Surely the time I spent working and studying was sufficient rest for a body running on zero fuel and a minor intake of clear liquids.  At some point I have a hazy notion that I should perhaps be napping, but it’s quickly dismissed when I remind myself all the sheets and blankets will be tied up in the wash/rinse/steam/dry cycles for the next three hours.  So I tackle the bathrooms – sinks, toilets, floors, rugs.  I empty the garbage and wipe down every surface I can think of.  Should I eat some toast or something?  Nah, maybe after I steam mop the floors.  Oh, and what’s for dinner?  I have no appetite, but the guys will want to eat.  I have some chicken in the fridge I can pre-cook so we can turn it into something later on.  I put away my mop and head to the sink to sing the alphabet before I think about touching anyone else’s food.

 

So at the end of the day when the men of my household return, I have done my best to create a germ-free sanctuary.  Will they get sick?  Probably (sigh).  I sincerely hope not, but I’m realistic about our chances.  I have done everything I can to protect them, which is really what we all do for those we love each and every day.  I am a wife.  I am a mother.  I don’t take sick days.  And man I need some hand lotion.

Spiritual Peeling

My son loves peeling oranges.  What I really mean by that is the mere sight of a box of clementines in the pantry gives him the giggles.  Giggles that lead to an excited mix of jumping and dancing along with a joyful plea, “Oranges, please!  I peel it!”  He has always loved oranges, but now that he can take on a reasonable portion of the peeling himself, it’s a whole new world. 

I started to wonder what exactly makes peeling an orange so exciting.  And it’s not just peeling oranges.  Putting his milk back in the refrigerator, helping to stir dinner on the stove, putting his socks on – all of these things give him a jolt of pleasure that’s written all over his face.  These are relatively simple tasks we take for granted (until a 2-year-old demands to help, thereby making the chore take three times as long), so on the surface I couldn’t see the joy in them at all. 

On the other hand, if it was all brand new to me I might have a different perspective.  If I had to sit by and watch someone else peel my oranges for a countless string of days, I would probably feel downright giddy about doing it myself.  My son is so eager to learn, and he relishes in his ever-growing independence.  So if I stop and think about it, it really makes perfect sense – if I could learn to do ten new things every day and begin to master them, that would be exciting!  (Oh if only that period of rapid brain development repeated itself later in life...)

Pure and simple: he’s grateful that he has the ability to peel an orange.  Grateful and filled with such a sweet and innocent joy that it comes out of him in giggles and hops.  Wow.  I could take a cue from that.  Instead of thinking ahead to my first meeting on my way into work, I could occasionally just pause and be grateful for a job I love.  And in the midst of stressing over dinner plans and grocery lists, I can be extremely thankful that we have the ability to provide nutritious food for our family.  

I am at once humbled and struck by the irony that a little bundle of energy in the form of a child has continually reminded me to slow down.  When my son was just a few weeks old and nursing with his tiny hands folded on his chest, I imagined he was offering a silent prayer of thanksgiving.  And now, he’s outwardly expressing his gratitude through the joy he finds in peeling an orange. 

God, grant me the wisdom of a 2-year-old.

Resourcefulness

I ate a chicken breast with a spoon today.  Add that to the long list of times I’ve conquered yogurt with a fork, or attempted, with great concentration, to dissolve the honey in my tea using only the swirling motion of the tea bag.  I generally bring my lunch to work, and sometimes the morning rush or just a lack of foresight leave me unprepared.  You know how it is – you’re trying to throw a reasonably nutritious collection of food together while a small person is whining at your feet because he wasn’t allowed to hold the pickle jar before the refrigerator door closed.  No?  That’s just me?  Well, moving on…

 

Thankfully, the human brain is wired to problem solve.  Did I panic when I realized I didn’t have a fork and knife on hand today?  No, I was able to immediately identify a suitable alternative.  Resourcefulness.  A silly example, I know, but perhaps instances like these serve as warm-ups for the real thing.  Mini-workouts to keep us on our toes for when we’re forced to rise to a greater challenge.  It stands to reason, then, that those who most frequently take part in these types of exercises are the most “resourcefully fit,” displaying mind-boggling agility when caught in sticky situations.

 

I, for one, believe my experience so far as a parent has started to hone these skills.  No diaper changing station in the restaurant?  Set up shop in the open trunk of the car.  Spit-up all over the couch?  A handheld clothes steamer should do the trick.  Sure, the first few minor parenting trials like this rattled us for a moment until logical thinking could resume.  However, you learn to anticipate the worst and have solutions in place ahead of time.  Pro-active resourcefulness!   High five, brain!  For example:

 

• I don’t just plan dinner.  I consider how the entrée will be received by a toddler based on a precise analysis of components including appearance, texture, flavor, and familiarity.  Side dishes are methodically planned in accordance with my findings.  If I anticipate the main course being desirable, it could be an opportunity to sneak in a new vegetable.  If coaxing may be required, I litter the plate with favorites and break out the holy grail of toddler dinner appeal – dip!  (I am convinced my son would try shoe leather if he could relish in the glorious task of dipping it in barbeque sauce first…but, I digress.)

• I know if I walk into my son’s room in the morning while brushing my teeth I better have his toothbrush in hand.  He’s going to want to brush his teeth the minute he sees me doing it.  And by that I mean he will repeatedly ask for his toothbrush in a rapid succession of pleas, each one becoming more and more desperate until I find myself running back from the bathroom with an Elmo toothbrush and cursing the builders that would dare to position a bathroom a whole 5 feet from the bedroom door.  The nerve!

 

So I labor on with fellow planners and resourcefulness-ers, earning my super hero mommy cape one day at a time.  I can only hope all these tests provide some benefit in interactions with people over the age of 2 as well.  And I’m confident they will.  I continue to find that parenting provides a number of lessons that can apply in the workplace, further confirming my theory that my child will teach me much more than I could ever hope to impart to him. 

 

Our experiences as a parent can alter how we set expectations, how we react to others, and how we adapt to situations that don’t go as planned.  As I tackle projects at work on the fly or deal with unanticipated questions in a presentation, I can thank a collection of ill-timed poopy diapers for giving me the tools I need to respond effectively.  And I can peacefully enjoy a chicken breast in my office eaten with a spoon – noticing not the subpar utensil, but the rare calm that accompanies my meal.

Multitude of Mediocrity

I’ve considered starting a blog in the past, but I was unconvinced I had anything valuable to say.  However, as thoughts pop into my head I find it therapeutic to take the time to explore them.  Thoughts about parenting, working, relationships, observations from daily life, and how I can tie them together – with a healthy sense of humor.  So, you may argue I still don’t have anything valuable to say (and I may agree), but it’s valuable to me to write it. And to the extent anyone reads any of this and is able to relate to it, even in a small way, we can laugh together and take comfort in shared experiences.  In the meantime, my wonderfully patient husband may be relieved that some of this fodder moves from the dinner table to the open airspace of the interwebs.

 

I make no commitment to how often I will make posts or how good they will be.  I’ve been in my brain for a while now, so what I can tell you is to expect a wide variety of topics and random quirks explored here.  I love to write, but the thought of anyone reading anything I’ve written is completely foreign to me and incredibly scary, so I humbly thank you for even making it this far.

 

And a quick note on the name of the blog – Multitude of Mediocrity.  It’s a happy coincidence that the acronym is M.O.M, but I didn’t start there.  I’ve always felt like a bit of a “jack (or jill?) of all trades, master of none” (emphasis on the second part of that phrase…I am nothing if not self-deprecating!).  I can generally hold my own in intelligent conversation, I can carry a tune, and I’m reasonably athletic. However, I didn’t go to Harvard, I would not call myself a musician by any stretch, and I certainly didn’t receive an athletic scholarship (or even compete in high school sports for that matter).  I’ve never felt like the best at any one thing, and I really don’t know what my “thing” is.  Those who know me well know that I can get equally excited about gardening, Shark Week, financial analysis, or a good book.  And don’t get me wrong, I love the variety! 

 

This dynamic has been highlighted in my life as I juggle an increasing number of adult responsibilities – marriage, parenting, church activities, managing a household, and working full time.  For any of us with a lot on our plates, it’s easy to question whether we’re able to truly devote enough of ourselves to each of these tasks.  I use the term “multitude of mediocrity” partially in jest, of course, to recognize that we all feel this way at times but we’re just doing the best we can to keep it all together.  And counting each amazing blessing along the way.

 

Let's do this.