A Lost Identity

From the time Ella was conceived, I knew I wouldn't work.

Not in the traditional sense, anyway.

While I think there is nothing wrong with a full-time working mother - heck, I often admire them, as I don't know how they do it - it just wasn't for me. And I knew it.

Blessedly, we are in a situation, where, if we scrimped and saved and lived very frugally, we could manage to survive on one income.

Let's just say there's a reason I cloth diaper, and it really doesn't have much to do with health. (That's just a bonus.)

Still, being that the hubs and I are not made of money, and I have an education such that I feel wasteful not using it, I managed to bring in part-time income after having Ella by working as a trainer, where I brought her to work with me while I trained my post-partum clients, as well as worked from home with my writing and brought in a little extra cash that way, too.

It wasn't exactly a fount of funds, but the extra income was nice, and as it didn't require me to put Ella in childcare, it worked out even better for what the hubs and I wanted for our family.

And then we moved.

We're now in Georgia, facing imminent deployments, and cut off from our normal network of support.

Still, when I got here, I put out the normal feelers for work in the military fitness industry. Things looked really promising.

Except for my own unnerving feeling that working in this new town with everything new on our plate might not be good for us; for my hubby and his career, for Ella and her development, and my own sanity.

But, still, not work? That seems preposterous. I have had some sort of job since I was 14 years old. Who am I if not a trainer, a nanny, a tutor, a writer, a teacher, all those jobs I've had over the years?

So, I continued to ignore the nagging tug of "This just isn't right for you," and I called up the Navy for work.

Initially, everything lined up as it should, and I was prepared to do the exact same job here (albeit fewer hours, of my own choosing) that I did in South Carolina.

And then the cracks started to appear.

A lack of funds. Not enough resources available to pay for a trainer of my experience. Warnings of a hostile work environment. Reports of it not being a good fit for a military wife and mother.

What few women I met here told me it wasn't a good idea. The prospective bosses I was talking to were wary that they couldn't afford me.

And just like that, I hit a wall.

I didn't, and don't, want to work for anyone outside the military right now. Submariner's schedules are tenuous, and my husband can come and go, with little to no warning, a lot.

So, when you work for military, you can easily say, "My husband just got home from deployment last night, and I won't be able to work for the next few days or so while we welcome him back."

And they get that.

The "civilian world," if you will, does not. (Heck, the last gym I worked at prior to working for the Navy was open, and had trainers working, on Christmas day.)

So, right now, that's not a good fit for us. Plus, I have Ella, my little co-trainer. And if she were to come down with the flu or an ear-ache, I don't have a spouse to split duty with.

Simply put, he can't call in sick.

Sailors regularly miss their children's births. It's not like he can come home when she's got the sniffles.

So, again, I was at stalemate.

If the military was unable, and largely unqualified, to hire me, I wasn't left with much choice.

It was about this time that I managed to come in contact with few other wives with husband's on the same boat as mine. Being that I was a) desperate for adult interaction, and b) faced with the reality that my volunteer work and social involvement with these women directly affected my husband's career, I accepted quite a bit of volunteer work, with promises to do more in the future, including run a free fitness program for some of the wives while our hubby's were deployed.

And, so, the hours I spent working in South Carolina are slowly becoming filled with things far more charitable.

My days look so different now.

Gone are the moments of folding laundry at 2 a.m. or trying to placate Ella while I grocery plan.

I'm on a schedule that allows me to get all that done and start teaching Ella her five senses, for instance, before dinner.

It also lets me make a host of emergency phone calls yesterday afternoon - part of my volunteer work for my husband's boat.

And I'm not getting anymore sleep, but most mornings, I don't have to answer to an alarm clock now. Well, other than Ella.

It's slower; my priorities have shifted. And, amid it all, I kind of like it.

***

On the same note, I'm also out of sorts.

I've never done this before. I've never not worked. It's unnerving, not to answer to anyone all day but myself.

I worry what it looks like. I feel like it makes me seem lazy. I think back to grad school and wonder if my professors would be disappointed in me. I worry that I'm simply "just a mom" and will never get back to all those things I was so good at.

All those things that made me, well, me.

It's a little bit like I've lost my identity.

One of my friend's mom's used to tell me, "Women can have it all. They just can't have it all, all at once."

And, for me, that rings true.

Right now, I can't be wife, mother, and employee.

I'm at a place where Ella and the hubs have to be more important. I'm at a place where I want them to be more important.

And yet, it's hard. It's hard to give up that piece that made me happy before them. It's hard to put it on the back burner and worry it will boil over and burn to a crisp waiting for me to eventually get back to it. It's hard for me to let go.

It's why I ignored my jittery nerves I first experienced when job-searching here. It's why I pushed through interviews, refusing to believe no one had the money to hire me.

It's why, even now, even though there was no way for me to find work right now, I still blush when I have to tell people I'm "a stay-at-home mom."

I'm just not used to it yet. Somewhere deep inside, I knew I'd always get to this point, but I'm just not mentally capable of comprehending that the only job title I have is "wife and mother."

I've lost my identity, and I'm working on picking up a new one.

But it's going to take some adjusting.

***

Anyone else felt a bit lost when you've gone from one job to a totally different one? What about those moms who left that stay-at-home gig to return back to a more traditional lot? Were you all bewildered, too?

Share below.

Happy Tuesday, everyone.

Is It Work?

Tuesday was rough.

For whatever reason, Ella fought her normal sleep and nap schedule like mad.

By bed time, she was so over-tired that she screamed for more than an hour. I sat there and rocked and nursed her and just let her scream in my ear until she finally tuckered out.

Then, the dog formally known as Marvin but who has now been renamed Lucky to Be Alive until he gets back in my good graces, barked loudly and ferociously and all attack-dog-like at a stupid plastic bag blowing through our yard, and, thus, woke up my cranky baby, who then proceeded to scream herself back to sleep for an additional 30 minutes while I held her and rocked and nursed her yet again.

That was the cherry on the top of my sewage-filled sundae on that particular day. I felt like I'd been through a war.

And then my husband walked in the door. Expecting dinner. Which, understandably, wasn't ready.

He listened to my tale of The Crying Baby And Lucky To Be Alive Dog and nodded understandingly and then asked if I wanted to go pick-up take-out so I didn't have to cook.

I resisted, knowing that we had perfectly good food in the fridge for a meal I'd already planned. Plus, I remembered that less than three days prior, he'd given me the official warning that we needed to be tight with our money for the next month or so.

Which is why I made the pre-ordained chicken drumsticks, mashed potatoes, steamed veggies, and salads for our dinner.

I asked my husband to start folding a load of laundry while I cooked. He obliged, but as I sat down to send an e-mail to my employer while I waited for the potatoes to boil, he hurried me along with a, "Now come on and help me get this load of laundry you washed done so we can eat and go to bed."

So, I folded. Finished dinner. Ate it with him. And went to take a shower before cleaning up the dishes and finally, blessedly going to bed, where I expected to catch at least two hours sleep before Ella woke up.

Then, mid-shower, I heard a knock at the bathroom door.

"Babe, she's awake."

I hopped out, and bundled in a towel, I saw my husband holding our 3 month old.

I grabbed her, headed back to her bedroom, and laid her down to nurse. Which she did.

For 45 long minutes.

I had to fully put her back to sleep, which takes a while. (Normally, I never let her get fully awake when she starts to rouse to eat at night, so she's a quick study and goes right back to sleep in 10 minutes tops. But my husband had fully righted her and awakened her, plus brought her out of the dimly lit bedroom, so I had to repeat my whole "go to bed" process.)

Nursing her, I was fighting to stay awake. I was also trying not to obsess about the fact that I'd need to wake up in less than six hours for what was going to be an extremely long day - a day that Ella and I both needed our rest for.

Meanwhile, I could just picture the dirty kitchen that was awaiting me whenever Ella decided to fall - and stay - asleep.

My husband, then, wanders into the bedroom while I'm nursing and announces he's going to bed.

I tell him I can't go down yet myself. Once Ella's asleep, there is still a dirty kitchen to tend to.

And, then, I do something I don't normally do. I ask him to start the dishes.

I did it with some guilt. After all, I don't work full-time, and I don't like to not get everything I need to get done around the house.

But my guilt was quickly replaced by hurt feelings when he ignored my plea for help, climbed into bed, and fell promptly asleep anyway.

Now, hear me out.

I know the guy works hard, long hours. I know he has a high-pressure job. I know he's under a lot of stress at work, and I know he deals and powers through all of it to provide for Ella and I.

But I also know that he doesn't consider what I do work.

I'll so much as ask him to unload the dishwasher, and he'll exclaim, "I just worked all day."

To which I'll, of course, quip back, "So did I."

And, oh, the eye rolls that follow.

The looks that say, "I just wish I could stay home all day. That's not work."

The exclamations of "Please!" he lets off when I talk about the stressors of juggling my little part-time job and mommy-hood.

I know he doesn't think of what I do as work.

Which is why he expects me to tend to the house, take care of the baby, run all of his, mine, and our errands, and do it all without nary a drop of his help, unless he's off on a weekend and feeling particularly generous and well-rested.

Don't get me wrong; he appreciates all I do. I know he does. And he even considers it necessary. He just doesn't consider it "work."

Now, in general, I agree with his principles. After all, I want to be home with my baby. I want to spend my days tending to all the stuff on the home-front, to use a dated phrase.

I probably want to do my job a fair bit more than he wants to do his.

But it is still a job.

And I don't want what I do trivialized.

It is work. It is a calling. It is something that takes effort and exertion. It is something that can put me under a tremendous amount of pressure and stress.

It is something that, at the end of the day, makes me tired, too.

So, I'll say it again: It is work.

Isn't it?

***

I don't want to make my husband sound like some misogynist pig here. Really, he's not. He's not above cleaning our bathroom and making a trip to the grocery store when he can.

But, the way his job is, he rarely can.

So, I do it all. Day in and day out, and he doesn't see it.

All he sees is a half-done house, a baby sleeping in her crib, and a tired wife when he walks in the door.

But I do know that he considers my day much easier than his own.

Partially, I agree. I can move at more a leisurely pace; I can set my own schedule, he thinks.

What he doesn't realize is that, when you throw in the rogue element of an infant, things can unravel in your day real quick.

You have to push back at the pressure and improvise.

And that sure feels like work to me.
***
Do your husbands consider what you do work? Or are we just debating semantics here?

Share below.

*I should also point out that the following night, we all got home extremely late, and I wasn't feeling terribly well, and my husband jumped right in, helping me with dishes and putting a very cranky baby down to bed. So never let it be said that he's not helpful. He's the best man I know because he loves his family and tries to do what he can to help in almost every way possible. It's not a question of that. I'm just wondering what we, as a society, classify as "work" these days.

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Back to the Board Room

Today is the day.

Today, Ella and I go back to work.

Honestly, I am terrified.

Now, let me be the first to say that I am the luckiest woman alive, as I have a part-time job that allows me to not only take my daughter to work with me, but keep her with me for almost all of my work-day.

So, really, I have no earthly reason to be scared.

But then again, I do.

You see, I've spent the last eight weeks exclusively mothering this little girl. I adore her. My concerns, first and foremost, have been all about her. She's come before everything else.
But as soon as I walk in the doors of the gym this morning, my concern is going to be split. My focus will be divided. I will have to think about not only my daughter but on the many other post-partum and mommy clients I train.

And, honestly, I kind of hate that.

I really love what I do, and I love the women I work with. That's the reason I'm even going back.

But, truthfully, my family is my top priority, and I know that, if put in a position where I had to choose between my clients' needs and my daughter's needs, I'm going to have to choose my daughter.

A part of me wishes I could be the type of mom who could overcome all that and leave her in a daycare, so that I would be able to focus on my job 100 percent while I'm there.

But I'm not. I'm simply not.

Last week, I left Ella with the hubs for one hour a day - I started teaching my daily spinning class last week because the hubs had the week off - and being away from her for 60 minutes hurt. Physically, it was painful.

I knew she was in good hands. I knew that - worst-case scenario - if she screamed the entire hour, it wouldn't kill her. But still, I hated it.

But I also loved teaching my class. Seeing my old clients and exercising was great.

But once the class was over, I sped right out of there and rushed home to my baby - who was perfectly content in my husband's arms - and grabbed her right up.

In that moment, I knew: I'd never be able to put her in child-care. I know other mothers can. I applaud them for that.

But I can't. I simply can't.

Thankfully, my husband helps support this decision. We cut our cell-phone bill. We gave up certain luxuries. We've given up subscriptions, cable packages, nicer things, and eating out.

Our lifestyle changed so we could make this parenting decision happen.

It stinks. But every time I look at Ella, I know, for me, it's worth it.
It might not be the same for each mama, but because I can only speak for myself, I can safely say that it's the only way I know how to parent.

Heck, when she's in her swing or sleeping, I miss her. I want to hold her.

I still hate when she cries, and I can't always make it immediately better.

I'm used to nursing her right when she wants to nurse. I'm used to picking her up right when she wants to be held. I'm used to rocking her to sleep and talking to her and rubbing her little back until she calms down when she's upset.

I am the anti-Ferber-izing mother. Ella doesn't have the ability to self-soothe. I don't believe in letting infants cry it out. And, while I understand that life can't be all about her all the time, right now, it's OK that it mostly is.

She's a tiny baby. She's not got the ability to be spoiled and selfish. She's only two months old.

And it would kill me to know that someone else is taking care of her needs. I want to be the one who helps her, who disciplines her, who feeds her.

Heck, I've yet to give her a bottle of pumped breast milk, mostly because I like that I can take care of her hunger. I like that I'm the one who can feed her.
But despite all that, Ella and I are going back to work. I've equipped myself with a great stroller, multiple wraps and baby carriers, and she and I have been practicing nursing on the go.

She's still so little that carting her around while I run circuits for clients shouldn't be that hard.

But I just keep thinking, What if she cries? What if she needs comforting? What if she hates the gym or gets sick or gets over-heated in her jogging stroller?

The mother in me wants to swoop her up and care for her. But the trainer in me is more likely to shoosh her, reach for a pacifier, and hope and pray she can hold off another 20 minutes for that diaper change.

I'm just not sure how it's all going to work.

There are stay-at-home moms. There are working moms. There are even work-at-home moms.

But what about moms who work with their babies, outside the home?

I don't know anyone who's done it.

And that makes me think that, maybe, that's because it's not possible. That, honestly, I'm going to be largely unsuccessful. That mothers aren't meant to pick one or the other. Their work or their babies.

I'm worried that, as women and mothers, we have to choose.

A good friend's mother once told me, "Women can have it all. They just can't have it all at the same time."

But, right now, that's exactly what I feel like I'm trying to do.

I'm trying to have it all.

At the exact same time.

***

Happy Monday, everyone!

To Work or Not to Work...

I told myself I'd work right up until my due date.

I'm a week-and-a-half away from that goal.

Every day - clients, members, strangers, and even my boss - ask me, "You're still here? When are you going to stop and go have that baby?"

Honestly, I don't know what to say to them anymore.

If my original due date is wrong, which it likely is*, at this point, I could actually be working another 2.5 weeks before my due date.

That, right now, seems like a lot.

First, let me back up and say, summer-time is my least favorite season to work at gyms. The clientele and scheduling are so sporadic, thanks to the lack of a school, plus the frequent vacations people take, that sometimes, I'm running around like a crazy person all day, and others, I'm sitting around, waiting for clients who never show, cancel at the last minute, or put in a half-hearted effort if they do come. It's like this everywhere I've worked, and right now, my tender emotions are having a hard time dealing with the unpredictable nature of it all.

Motivation, at my job right now, is low.

And it's made worse by my pregnancy.

Every morning, part of me wishes I was in labor just so I won't have to go to work.

I mean, it would be nice, taking a break for a little while, even if it involves contractions and labor pains, etc.

The problem is, any break right now would be costly.

Because I'm a part-time employee - and non-salaried at that - if I don't work, I don't get paid.

I already plan on taking six weeks off after the baby is born. (Basically, I'm just taking the time the midwives deem reasonable for recovery before I return to vigorous exercise.) This means I will have six weeks without pay in my very near future.

Now, luckily, we've budgeted for that. And after those six weeks, I will be able to return full-force and bring my baby to work with me. So, really, there's no need to worry. By mid-to-late August, I expect to be back at work, Baby Girl riding in her stroller or Moby-d to my front.

In fact, just this weekend, I picked up a group of new post-partum clients, so I'll be making a bit more, even, when I go back.

I'm looking forward to that, too.

What I'm not looking forward to is the next week, two weeks, three weeks (four weeks? Dear heavens! Say it ain't so!) in which I may be still be pregnant and working.

I keep waiting for the midwives to tell me stop, but they haven't.

I keep waiting for my body to tell me stop, but it hasn't.

I keep waiting for someone, anyone, to tell me to stop, but no one has. (Other than the insane old ladies who have been eye-ing me disapprovingly since I was about 14 weeks along.)

I know I am incredibly blessed that I can keep moving at this point in the game, that I'm not on bed rest but can still lift weights, walk four to six miles a day, work with clients, and teach five spinning classes a week.

Granted, I swell and sweat and limp a bit while doing it, but it's not impossible, by any means.

Plus, ask any OB-GYN or midwife, and they'll tell you that walking and exercise are prime ways to start labor.

In other words, I'm getting paid to induce contractions. It's not like I wouldn't be walking anyway, trying to get this baby out sooner rather than later.

On top of that, everyone tells me, "You're so active, she's bound to come early."

All the midwives. My yoga teacher. Doulas. My boss - a former body-builder and mother of two.

And, yet, I'm beginning to doubt that.

The kid has been bumbling around in there since she was conceived. It's not like walking, running, cycling, and swimming are new to her. She's kind of used to it, I figure.

And while I do notice that exercise can induce contractions every day now, I also notice they're not the "real" kind.

I'm starting to wonder if the fact that I am working is, in essence, putting her off.

If, in fact, the baby is picking up on the fact that I'm still working and still, therefore, not 100-percent focused on her arrival.

It sounds hokey, but you don't have to tell me how mental this late-stage pregnancy/labor thing is.

Trust me, I get it - my emotional and mental state is hugely important in getting this baby out.

So, to be honest, if I had my way, in my heart-of-hearts, I'd burrow down and never leave my house right now. Which is saying something. Because I'm a pretty social person; I like to plan things; I like to get out.

But right now, it's taking all my effort not only to go to work but to go to church, or attend weekly get-togethers with friends, or throw the crafting afternoon I hold at my house every week.

Then again, the last thing I need is to sit around my house, watching water boil, and waiting for this baby to come.

That's only going to make this process feel longer.

So, yeah, I'm a mess, really. I don't know what to do.

So, I ask you (beg you, plead with you) what would you do? Did any of you work right up until your due date? Do you regret it? Or do you think it's the wiser, more practical option?

*Quick Note: As of right now, I've semi-committed to working until my original due date, June 17, assuming I don't go into labor before then. Then, I'm going to let myself re-evaluate my job and see how I feel. Still, I can be persuaded the other way. I'm not 100-percent committed to it yet, and I don't know why. It's only a 1.5 weeks, but it seems like an eternity right now. To further my confusion, at my appointment yesterday, the midwives agreed that they do have my due date wrong, and now, they consider June 24 my official due date. This means, likely, I would have to work 2.5 more weeks to meet the original goal I set of working right up until my due date. Can I do it? Probably, yeah. But it still seems daunting as of right now.

So, please, your advice! I need it!

Otherwise, I may be a pregnant woman working forever. Or my water may just break all over a spin bike one day.

Which, at this point, I'd probably welcome.

Yikes.

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone!