The Bad Mommy Files - Working Mommy

Back in the days of marry-straight-out-of-high-school-or-if-you're-very-progressive-straight-out-of-college, most women went directly from living with mom and dad, to living with hubby, to having a kid hanging off each boob and wondering what happened. But becoming moms in our mid-thirties has left me and a lot of my friends in the position of having a "before" (like, a real, grown up life) to compare with the "after".

And while I won't speak for all of us (as some of my friends have happily embraced their new, full-time mom role - which, by the way is SOOOO a full time job - with patience and joy) for the rest of us (ok, for me in particular) the count-down to returning to work began on the heels of the first, bonding nursing session. Which isn't to say that I haven't enjoyed my time off with Otter immensely. But, truth be told, it was always with the understanding that there would be a parole period sooner or later.

Frankly, doing the kind of work that earns me a paycheck is about a billion times easier than working at being mom. And it allows us to remain in our house AND have food to eat. And while someone who hauls cement for a living might disagree, after the rigors of feeding, bathing, chasing, catching, and playing with a toddler for some 8- 10 hours, a day at the office has almost vacation-like calm.

I'd like to believe that working makes me a better mother when I AM home. But recent evidence suggests that even that may need some work. After a particularly early show morning (I had to be in at 6:30 am), I returned home in time to walk the dog child and the baby child in 100+ degree weather. After haplessly maneuvering dog, stroller and baby through the blazing hot street while trying to avoid stepping on my floor-length work dress (which I didn't have time to change out of) or running over said dog with said stroller, I struggled home, wilted and exhausted mentally calculating how soon I could put my put my dear baby (whom I had only spent some 60 minutes with all day) away, once and for all.

As I gathered bath supplies and accessories, Otter began protesting loudly to being put in her chair while the dog followed me around, well in my personal space, making sure I didn't overlook any portion of his dinner. I wish I could tell you how I rose above, basking in my baby's desire to be with me at all times, flattered by my dog's devotion. Instead, I stalked into the bedroom, and what I hope was out of their collective earshot and unloaded. "Shut up!" I whisper-yelled. "Shut up! Just shut the fuck up!"

After a few minutes, I walked out, my best Stepford Wife smile plastered on my face and chirped "Bath time, honey!" all the while dreaming of the moment Otter went down to sleep, the dog gave up his endless quest for food, and I would be rid of them both for the evening.

On the Downhill

This morning we unexpectedly found ourselves at our pediatrician's. Though Otter's 9 month appointment was scheduled for the following Friday, she decided that she had better things to do that day. So after being suspiciously itchy, we landed at the doctor's office.

Of course, Dr. L found nothing wrong with her. If you read a note of disappointment, it's only because I knew she was fine, but, being a good parent called the nurse at the office and was told to come in anyway. Now I couldn't not go in, lest I be labeled "irresponsible," authorities be called and Otter be raised in foster care. (As a side note, I am becoming increasingly confused by the function of an on-call nurse, if all the advice ends with "You should bring her in." Though, to play my own devil's advocate, they were quite helpful during the poopy embargo.)

On the upside, after confirming Otter was in perfect health and telling me to soak her in a bath, Dr. L did kindly agree to do her 9 month exam at the same time, saving me a trip next Friday. So after a late start, I finally headed off to the office.

It's hard to believe, but come 6 pm today (or 4:15 pm, let's be honest) I am once again a lady of leisure. While I'm making the necessary noises about looking for work, the truth is I'm looking forward to a little time to hang out with Otter.

More importantly, I've made it over the hump - not only am I 3/4 of the way through the American Academy of Pediatrics' recommended year of breast-feeding, I have survived the struggle of exclusively nursing while at work. Since I've oft-detailed the trials and tribulations of that arrangement, I won't bore you with the petty details. Suffice it to say, after endlessly stressing over whether I'd produce enough, pump enough, survive long enough, etc., I return to the leisure life with 13 packets of backup milk still hanging out in the freezer.

Not to toot my own horn (since I'm not done just yet, and it's obnoxious...) but, go me.

MacGuyvering It

As I've mentioned all too many times, providing for SB's nutritional needs while working full time is, at best, a humbling experience. On numerous occasions, as I had layer after layer of dignity peeled away like so much old onion skin, I'd believed that I had fallen as far as I can go. Yet every time I become reconciled that I've (once again) hit rock bottom, the universe conspires to pull the floor out from under me. It is a "Screw you, you are not in charge, bitch," on a cosmic scale.

My latest fall even further from grace can be blamed squarely on my forgetfulness. After carefully washing and packing away my bottles, I went off to pump only to realize I'd left them at home. Problematic, since I had the implements necessary to pump with but lacked the bits needed to pump into.

After a brief panic I started going over my options - go to the end of the day without pumping? Impossible. Pump into disposable coffee cups? Really beyond weird. Use the breast milk storage bags I always carry in my bag? YES! Oh, wait. In a needless bout of "organizing," I'd taken them out since I "never use them." I went back to panicking.

I ran to my friend who is always the voice of reason in my baby-related mishaps. After listening to me, she came up with the next best thing - zip-loc bags. I headed off to the kitchen to search, and quickly realized this was a waste of time. Granted in an office where plates and napkins are often hard to come by, finding storage bags is about as likely as walking into the kitchen with the expectation of scoring some gold bullion.

My next plan of attack was the commissary. It has an actual, working kitchen after all, so I didn't think a storage bag or two would be that outlandish a request. I was wrong. But in their kindness, the staff did give me two giant plastic bags (the kind you put veggies in at the supermarket). I was in business again.

It was an hour later that I finally settled onto the floor of our audio booth with my pump, my bags and 2 rubber bands my friend had donated to the cause. As I sat there, attaching two pump valves to a plastic bag with some elastic, and thinking "Ok, now I've really hit rock bottom. This cannot possibly get any worse," a knock came at the door. "We have to use the booth to do a recording," I was told.

Seriously? After moving my whole MacGuyver operation once more, this time to our lead director's offcie, I'll never question the universe's dominion over me again.

Images by Mykl Roventine and Clearly Ambiguous

Breastfeeding 101

Returning to work after having a baby has a unique set of challenges. Doing it while continuing to breastfeed adds a whole new level of difficulty.

First, there's the social awkwardness of approaching your various co-workers to find a place where you can pump, only to discover that while you work in an office that is 99% women, all the people with access to private, locking rooms seem to be male. Next, there is the indignity of pumping while sitting on the floor of the voice-over booth, all the while hoping you won't be interupted by people who are looking to record voice-overs. Of course there's the task of trying to inconspicuously disappear while carrying a giant black bag that contains a machine which, when plugged in, makes a buzzing noise loud enough to wake the dead. Finally, once you've given up on the previous pursuit, there's the inevitable Q&A session that ensues.

While shooting our latest show a few weeks back, I attempted to be discreet, informing people I was "going upstairs" when the need arose. By the end of the first day everyone knew that Natalya was upstairs, pumping! A litanly of questions arose. So for those of you interested, or out of earshot when this was all being loudly discussed, I'm here to educate.

1. What are you doing up there (upstairs)?
I am pumping.

2. What does it feel like?
Like attaching a vacuum cleaner to your nipple and turning it on and off really fast. While I've never actually done this myself, I'm fairly sure it's an accurate analogy.

3. How often do you do it?
Usually 2 times during the workday, and once at night. No matter how tired I am.

4. How do you know when you need to pump?
How do YOU know when you need to eat or drink? I can feel it.

5. How much do you pump out?
Depends on how long it's been between pumpings. Usually, between 4 and 6 ounces.

6. Have you ever tasted the milk?
I did, after being met with disbelief when I originally said no.

7. Has your husband?
No. "Mother's Milk" may sound hot to some, but after you've actually seen me going through the motions, you realize that pumping is about as sexy as darning socks.

Perspective

Getting coffee this morning, I chatted with a man who makes his living as a freelance photographer AND skydiving instructor.  It's a little depressing to know that there's at least one person out there who has two jobs BOTH of which are way cooler than mine.

Food For Thought

A week has passed since I returned to work.   All in all, it's been an easy transition.  While I'm at the office, I am almost convinced that all is the same.  I easily slipped back into work mode, and Otter at home seems like a fiction I created to get a 5-month leave.  There are however some changes that are a bit harder to overlook.

1)  Pumping at work...  Around the time I was nearing birthing-day, I blogged about having the last shreds of modesty stripped away by my doctors.  In thinking I had fallen as far as I could, I was sorely mistaken.  There is nothing quite like sitting on the floor of an audio booth (with a glass door that you've covered in orange construction paper and packing tape for privacy) with a double electric pump attached to your boobs whirring away, to teach you about humility. That, and an every-growing respect for bovines.

2)  The end of the workday has changed to between 5:30 and 6, so that I can make it home in time.  While this sounds great on paper (or computer screen, as the case may be), the end of the day hardly guarantees the end of work.  More often than not, something that would have taken me 45 minutes to do had I just stayed at the office, will have to be picked up several hours later from home, and invariable take 3 times as long to complete.

3)  Apparently, I have taken all the subconscious stress of returning to work and single-mindedly siphoned it into an obsession about how much Otter is eating.  This seems to be my "go-to" place for worry.  I see my hard-earned milk supply dwindling, wonder how long I will work-pump before losing my mind, and begin to panic about SB's inevitable starvation.  Logical thoughts - that a) I might just be able to keep up pumping, b) she'll be starting solids soon and c) there is always (heaven forbid) FORMULA to supplement with - are lost on me.

As I try to navigate this new, dual life I can only tell myself that I'm not the first to go down this road and it will get easier.  I just wish I knew how soon...

Transfer Of Power

A week ago, I began the process of handing Otter off into the nanny's care. I did this incrimentally (professing it was for her sake, but it was really for mine), first running in at every cry, finally leaving for several hours at a time.

Today the transfer was completed, as I headed off to my first day back at work, and Susana began her first full day of primary caretaker. I don't know how much a 5-month-old understands, but Otter clearly gathered something from me. As I headed for the door, she reached for me, and began to whimper. I tucked tail and ran out the door as quickly as I could.

So I have spent the better part of the day back at the office, re-gathering office supplies, commandeering a computer, trying to get my voicemail to work. It is eerily familiar, so simple to get back "to normal." But I have to remember that my life will not go back to pre-baby business as usual. I have to learn yet another skill - that of balancing my professional life with that of a mom.

I've resisted the temptation to call home. I will, undoubtedly, find out Otter was just fine when I get home at 6 tonight. Yes, I have to also learn to leave earlier.