This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.
What Chapter Are You…
Leaving:
My post-maternity leave chapter.
In:
The querying trenches as an Indie author
Entering:
About to sign with my very first literary agent! YAY!!
This world is not meant to be easy on a childbearing woman.
Three weeks ago, as I stood making a cup of coffee, cradling my fourth baby, who had been nestled at my breast for the previous twenty minutes, I thought to myself: I can’t wait to go back to work.
The laundry had piled up. The dishes sat unwashed in the kitchen sink. My work as a writer had been placed on hold for months. My still-recovering body was worn down. Bags under my eyes held more fluid than usual. My normal bandwidth — being able to balance it all well — was missing. Instead, I was in a soul-crushing sea of chores, never-ending tasks, and mundane responsibilities of motherhood.
But now, back at my desk as a psychiatric office supervisor, a position I’ve held for almost twelve years, I find myself thinking: I wish I could go back on maternity leave.
Why is it that women have to choose between quality time with their children or a job we enjoy? What about our ever-fragile sanity?
In my last week of maternity leave, I took time to reflect. I was thankful I had a job to go back to with colleagues who were counting on my return. I was grateful to have another healthy baby. I was fortunate to be married to a supportive husband. Yet inside, I was screaming to be anywhere but home, even though it was a home filled with love, laughter, and good health.
Between the weeks of sleepless nights, the smell of spoiled milk capping each of my shoulders, the extra skin that hung over my pajama pants, and my unwashed hair tossed up into a bun each morning, I longed to be myself again. I was having irrational thoughts, like: if I could just squeeze back into those jeans that once fit, or if I could travel the roads in my own car, then I could get some happiness back.
Turns out, what I was missing was a routine separate from that of being a wife and mother. One that didn’t involve me holding my beautiful new daughter 24/7 or cleaning up an endlessly dirty house.
The thing is, now that I’ve gotten my routine back, I still feel like something is missing. Sadly and alarmingly, I find myself longing to go back in time. I find with a little more rest, I can now appreciate the moments I can’t get back, no matter how hard I try. Like little toes that curl at the touch of my hand. A coo and a smile when she sees my face in the morning. A cry that is comforted by the crook of my arm, placed just right. A crook no one else seems to be able to offer.
Why did I rush it? Why did I rush that uninterrupted time with her? She’s my last baby. Everyone else is grown. My oldest hardly seems to need me anymore. It’s all carpooling, and sports, and endless snacks at the ready. I wish I could go back to making those cups of coffee with her feeding at my breast and falling asleep for hours in the crook of my arm.
I pick her up from daycare, a solid ten hours with someone else to rock her to sleep, desperate to see her at the end of my workday. Many women like me have to take those ten hours away from their children to be able to provide for them. Yes, that required time away is spent doing work that I enjoy, but still. It’s a vicious cycle of hoping and praying I am doing the right thing. For me. For them.
The guilt I felt in my last week of maternity leave was unbearable. How could I wish for time away from the child I prayed for? I reminded myself of the miscarriage I had last summer, thinking, you lucky woman. You got pregnant again so quickly after such a horrible loss, and now you have everything you could ever want. You have things some women will never get to experience. Why aren’t you soaking it up and enjoying this time?
It isn’t that simple.
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You captured the very real impossibilities we face as mothers. Thank you for putting this tug of war into words.