My Working Mom

As if in a trance, the men had all been lured away from the crisp first taste of Fall and into the house to watch the Ohio State vs. Notre Dame football game. Even my son Charlie, the last to join them, ceded to the magnetic pull of the kickoff. He’d been enjoying talking and laughing with the women on the back deck of the rental house, overlooking the calm lake. He’d been sitting close to his newish bride, looking so happy. Given five of the six women (all except me) were from Ohio, including one Ohio State University alumnus, we were excited to watch the big game too, but we lingered outside on the deck.

I noticed the warm feeling immediately. The glow of girlfriends circling in on a common experience, which I had always treasured and gone the extra mile to squeeze into my busy working mom life whenever I could. My daughter-in-law, Emily, was explaining how she and Charlie had bonded so effortlessly over their full-time working moms—how they felt proud of their moms continuing to take on new challenges and grow in their careers, while they were also loving moms. And how they had been raised with expectations of helping around the house. They had, of course, compared stories of summer day camps and after-school daycare programs, dad taking care of the morning routine or serving barely qualifying dinners when mom was working late or traveling for work, nannies at the house after school, and being shuffled around in other parents’ cars, getting them where they needed to be.

Donna, who was a pediatric intensive care nurse while raising her daughter, replayed how she’d call the other moms asking them to transport her daughter somewhere if it was before 6:00pm and that she always offered to do the driving after 6:00pm, no matter how many kids needed to be chauffeured home, she’d get them all home safely. She said it was impossible to breast feed beyond her few weeks of maternity leave because taking care of intensely ill patients simply wouldn’t allow her to step away to pump breastmilk. Beth, who’d been a schoolteacher and principal while raising four children, told how she’d tried to plan any big events around her school breaks, including having another baby. Of course, not everything went as planned. And how her oldest child, Emily, was a bit bossy because she sometimes tried to fill in for mom, nudging the nanny aside.

Alex (daughter of Donna), and Emily and Sarah (daughters of Beth), now in their late 20s, shared how they had felt like outsiders while growing up because of their working moms. They couldn’t help but compare themselves to almost all their other friends who had moms at home most days to greet them after school or volunteered at school functions or drove the kids to after-school activities. They were smiling and laughing and sitting taller, poking fun at the memories. I observed a bounce in their postures as they told their stories, and I could see it—they believed. They were going to go after their dreams too.

I was mostly a listener and observer. As a software development leader while raising two boys, I connected with every bit of the discussion, but there was something so wonderful about the mothers and daughters weaving their memories together, that I almost didn’t want to jump in. It was more than a girlfriend glow, deeper and richer, and I wanted to really taste it and hold onto the moments. After waiting for an appropriate pause, I chimed in that if there was one piece of advice that I could give young women struggling to juggle career and motherhood—as it is undoubtedly a struggle—it would be to ask for lots of help and find a way to stay in the game. To keep on going. Even through the toughest times. My advice would be to drop back to part-time work if necessary (if you can), and keep your foot in the game somehow. There will be so much that is less than perfect, so many facets of life where you may feel not enough, and so much wonder and grace.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been both terrified and trusting that I’d measure up as a mom. It was always my most important job. I had been doing okay with two sons, David and Charlie, who were twenty-six months apart. About two months after each birth, I was back to work full-time, feeling a tumbling twirl of bliss, exhaustion, and gratitude. When Charlie turned 5 years old, Bill and I talked about having another baby. With our younger son entering kindergarten at a public school, we were looking at a reprieve from the high cost of full-time daycare, so we knew we could handle the cost of another child entering full-time daycare.

I secretly, deeply wished for a daughter. I say secretly because I mostly kept my longings to myself. I’d gained some confidence raising boys, but I wondered if I’d be good at raising daughters. Would I be soft and feminine enough? Would I push her too hard, wanting her to be independent and able to protect herself? Oh, how I dreamed of having that special mother-daughter relationship, especially in the long run, when they turn into mothers themselves. In the end, the practical side of me, and of Bill too, felt a sense of strong warning that we’d be pushing our luck by adding another small human to our wonderfully precarious mix. (Oh, what we missed!)

What touched my heart most about that evening on the deck with two generations of strong women was feeling like a full-fledged member of the tribe, not a one-foot-in and one-foot-out member (like I had felt for most of my adult life, loving my career in a male-dominated field and yet yearning for more mom time with my children.) I had felt included in the divine inner circle of mothers and daughters, welcomed by my daughter-in-law and by her mother too. My eyes brimmed with tears at the female power of love as we all raised our glasses and toasted “Here’s to strong women!”