I told my husband I wasn't sure about going back to work after we had dinner on the patio.
Two months was the age of our son. It had been a year since I had been alone.
We spent the entire day together. I held him because he would scream when I tried to transfer him to his chair. I panicked when I couldn't feel him until I remembered he was in his bassinet because I heard him fussing on the monitor.
I was going to return to work after four months of maternity leave. I had arranged for a nanny who had worked for a family friend to look after my son during the day. I didn't think I could allow someone else to take care of him for that long.
I was told by my friends that I would feel differently by the end of my leave, that I would be more prepared to start working again, and that I would be able to spend more time with the baby. I told my husband that I was rethinking my decision to go back to work.
In the years before we had a child, my husband reminded me of what I had said. I did not want to be a stay-at- home mom. I was worried that my identity would be subsumed by my child. After four months of maternity leave, I realized that I didn't know anything about myself as a professional.
I told my husband that I felt different. I told my husband that I wouldn't be able to do that.
I wrote about the challenges of being a working parent in the early days of the Pandemic. I was aware that it could be hard to balance the demands of your job with your child's daycare schedule and that managers are often biased to see women as less dedicated to their careers once they have children.
I spoke with a lot of people about how becoming a parent has changed their approach to work. Some people stuck with a bad job because it paid their family's bills, or they tried to change careers because they wanted to do more for society.
When my husband and I decided to have a family, I assumed that I would be prepared for the transition. I didn't know that there was a lot of torture. I'm trying to be both a parent and a professional at the same time, and I think my colleagues expect me to be.
I returned to work after taking my therapist's suggestion to give it a chance and it was a smooth transition. Before I began publishing anything new, my managers gave me time to get used to my new life. My coworkers were excited about the baby's progress.
Even though I didn't feel like I was a fraud at my job, I still worried that I would be exposed as one. A mom who was relieved to do a few hours of knowledge work because it gave her a break from lifting and bouncing and picking up toys with her toes? Is it possible that a professional would rather be hugging her child than answering emails? My transition to working parenthood has been like this, an experiment in self-flagellation and loneliness.
I'm writing from the couch in my son's room that I've fallen asleep on many times. My son plays happily with our nanny. I don't feel right writing about how hard it is to be a mother when I have a full-time job, a spacious home, and family nearby, as well as a job that allows me to work slumped over a pillow in ripped leggings.
I am ashamed that the problem is with me. My son appears perfectly content most of the time, despite the fact that I work from home, my husband works from the office, and a nanny takes care of him. Giving up my full-time salary would make it harder for me to give my son all the opportunities I want.
The self-deprecating cycle has slowed, but hasn't stopped over the last two months. I find the only respite in doing whatever I'm supposed to be doing at the moment: reporting a story, responding to slacks, feeding my son, and knowing that eventually my thoughts will catch up with me.
I text with girlfriends while lying in front of the TV. I don't like what I see. My experience is not unusual. One person tells me that it will get easier. I will. I don't know if I believe her. I have a story to tell and bottles to wash, but I am not alone.
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