The "More" Child

A week ago I completed my first day as the full-time Director of Communication for a national non-profit organization.

“What!?!” you sputter. “Wait a minute! Here I was lulled into thinking that this blog is written by a homeschooling mom/involved school mom who has so much free time she churns out this blog for heaven’s sake. And you’re telling me she has a paying job?”

Well, yes.

And I love it. I love putting on nice clothes. I love picking up a Starbucks on the way to the office, striding the downtown sidewalks. I love having a business card and a paycheck. In the past C. has actually said, “Mom, why are you so happy at work?”

A little back story. Well, a lot of back story. Over the years work and I have had, IMO, a challenging relationship. Like many smart kids, I found the transition from the world of school to the world of work difficult. I liked the rules and clarity of school. I liked the reward system. In short, I was really, really, really good at school. Work on the other hand entailed all these… games…this ambiguity…no immediate feedback or grades. After graduate school I felt, rightly or wrongly, that every one else got the rules and somehow I didn’t. It seemed I was missing some sort of worker bee gene.

Reflecting on my childhood I see so many parallels to C. I too was the firstborn and verbal. At age four I was writing books, as in folding paper into pages, illustrating and dictating the stories to my mom. (I still have “Susie Circus Girl” and “Why I Love My Baby Brother” somewhere.) I was a voracious reader although the only reading materials we had in our immigrant household were Family Circle and National Geographic and I don’t remember my parents ever reading books (Thanks for being smart enough to take me to the library, mom.) I was artistic and creative and crafty like C. I made my first real friend in 6th grade, a friendship that endures to this day. (We were alphabetically adjacent in homeroom, but what sealed the deal was the fact that my friend was the only person I had ever met who had read and loved the Chronicles of Narnia too.) I was the “smart girl” and didn’t really find my niche until late high school. The one place where C. and I differ? I was a totally people pleasing, school-lover. C., as you have seen, is not. Must be her father’s genes.

Anyway, after graduate school I moved back to the DC area. There was a recession going on in 1991 and I felt lucky to land a job with a national environmental organization. I left after close to two years and worked briefly with some documentary filmmakers and then another non-profit. (Note to idealistic do-gooder self: “Non-profit” means…well…no money.) I got pregnant and three weeks after C. was born my husband got a job which took us overseas. Life was good in Africa. I had an amazing housekeeper and I managed to string some part-time freelance jobs together. M. was born.

And then we came back to the DC area. I had a one year old and a three and a half year old. I didn’t know anyone in the burbs and all my friends were still single, without kids, doing the globe-trotting, happy hour thing. Meanwhile I was…lactating. How to do this mom/work thing? I needed childcare to network after three and a half years away and, well, work. And I needed to work to pay for childcare. At which point the question became, what was the point?

I was conflicted. I’m of the narrow, overlooked slice of demographic that gets lumped in with the Baby Boom but really overlaps with Gen X. I straddled two world views. My stay-at-home mom drilled into me that a mother should be home in the early years. (She thought I should be a professor not because I had a burning intellect and could make contribution to the world, but because the hours would mesh nicely with raising a family.) At the same time it was that whole ERA, “I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan…” era. Title IX came into being in 1972, when I was 9. It was the time of girls-can-be-anything–and the last thing you wanted to be was your mother.

I threw myself into momming. I would use all the creativity and energy and smarts that I would have thrown into work into being the best damn mom on the planet. I would convince myself I wasn’t jealous of the goodies that two incomes could bring. I would convince myself that I had put too much stock in a job being able to bring me fulfillment, and should look to my family, my two bright, beautiful girls instead. And I did. I spent endless days on the couch reading aloud and introducing the girls to my dearest book friends. I crafted, scrapbooked, went on park outings, did co-op time in coop nursery school classes, sewed the most amazing mermaid Halloween costume. Heck, I homeschooled C. for Kindergarten. But underneath it all I was always restless, vaguely unsatisfied, gnawed by guilt that I wasn’t contributing financially, or worse, haunted by the specter of an insecure and impoverished old age. I loved order, making lists and checking them off: Done. But being a mom of young kids is inherently disorderly. It’s never: Done. I decided to use this time at home to figure out what I really wanted to do, so that I’d be ready for that magic day when the girls were finally in school.

Right after our return I fortuitously ran into an old acquaintance who was teaching a class on writing creative non-fiction. “Come to my class,” he said. “I”ll even sneak you in.” I was fully planning to blow him off, until he called the night before the class and said “You’re coming, right?” Somehow I extricated myself from my kids and got on the Metro at 5:30 on a weeknight. And I loved the class. I loved being with grown-ups. I loved the positive feedback and the intellectual stimulation. I even loved riding the Metro by myself. It was magic. (Thanks Thom!)

So I started writing. And writing. I took workshops at the Writers Center. I got published. In the Post! More than once! The universe was saying Yes. And I figured out that the one thread that ran through my life since I was a kid, that tied together my disparate jobs, was writing. It dawned on me that the thing I took for granted, that came easily to me, actually didn’t come easily to other people–and what’s more they weren’t very good at it. So I was a writer. I finally had a soundbite. And being a writer gave me permission to range over all sorts of topics. I wasn’t a work failure. I was an artist. An artist–with a killer organizational streak–rolled into one.

I got ready in the 6 months before M. started Kindergarten. I put together my resume with the help of my grad school career office. I focused on what it was I really wanted rather than being thankful for just being offered a job. I started doing some volunteering in my area of interest for an organization I liked, which seemed like a good way to get back into the world of work. And lo…just like they describe in the career books…a part-time editing job was advertised. I applied. I got the job. I could work from home while the kids were in school, but once a week I would go into the office for a staff meeting. It was perfect; the best of both worlds.

And so it has been for the past five years. Every year I’ve gotten a new job title as I expanded into areas that no one in the organization was tackling. Great colleagues, great mission, an ongoing creative, intellectual challenge.

Then in December my colleague who had been in the position for 10 years announced his resignation. The president of our organization called me in and asked if I had thought about what it meant for me, did I want “the whole enchildada” or just a part? I thought about it for a few days, and ultimately demurred. I would love to, I told him, I really really would, but couldn’t. The kids. The homeschooling. Such a big job. How could it ever work?

So the new year rolled around, and I was asked to write the job description for the person who essentially would be my boss. I struggled with it. And I really struggled the day that I was asked to go to lunch with a candidate for the position. I saw that the day would come when I was going to have to brain dump all my hard won knowledge and experience into some new person, who would eventually go on to seize the glory when things finally turned around for our little non-profit, while I was the one who had sweated through the lean times. It dawned on me that yes, I was just as qualified to do this. I might have areas where I needed to build my skills and experience, but any person coming into the job would too. And I had five invaluable years of institutional knowledge. At least I already knew what I didn’t know, and could go about finding what I needed.

That evening I called our president and told him to count me in. I wanted to be considered. I knew that if I didn’t do it, no matter how terrified, I was, I would regret it for the rest of my life. And then I would be really bitter. It was a huge opportunity…one that wouldn’t come again. That night I felt like I was staring down an abyss, like I was being torn in two. The whole wake up at 4 a.m. sobbing thing. I was afraid I wouldn’t get the job. I was afraid that would. I was afraid of what it would mean for our family, for the girls. I was afraid of the very high risk- of-public-failure factor. It would be a huge step.

I have this card on my refrigerator with a quote from Eleanor Roosevelt that says You Must Do the Thing You Think You Cannot Do. Ultimately I had to do it. For the girls. For me.

For his part, my husband is incredibly supportive. He’s already talked to his boss about being able to work from home on a regular basis, and about shifting his hours around. C. asked, “Is this your dream job mom?” I told her yes and I think she understands. I think she’s good with it if it means that when I’m home, I’m home. M. is just excited that she’ll be getting a cell phone (something that C. is not happy about…why does she get one when I had to wait?”). I’ve worked out that until the end of the school year I’ll go into work twice a week and work the balance from home, to accommodate my chauffeuring C. to UMBC. On the other days C. can come with me (they’ve always been incredibly understanding of my family needs and welcoming of the “junior interns”) but more often she chooses to be home alone, within phone and IM reach.

I’ll transition to full time with more time in the office in the summer, and that’s where it gets hairy (it will be easier when school is in session). How to fill 10 weeks? We have a few camps lined up, but ultimately we’ll find a way to make it work. A friend has already offered to do some picking up, dropping off and hanging onto when needed. The girls are getting older and I’m optimistic that some independence and responsibility might do them good.

Wish us luck!