The Mommies' Diaries…Parenting, One Blog at a Time.

Hi. I know it’s been a while. But I’ve been having trouble finding balance in mi vida loca (my crazy life). I’ve written a few blog posts in my head over the last few months, and am eager to get at least one of them on paper.

Last month, I was standing in line at Whole Foods waiting to pay for boxed lunches for my colleagues to eat after our team building nature walk in the Baylands Nature Preserve in Palo Alto, California. I had organized this activity as part of my role as Interim Director of Operations for the nonprofit organization being incubated by my fulltime employer. As I was pulling out my credit card to hand to the cashier I looked over at the magazine stand and a headline caught my eye. It was the July/August cover of The Atlantic magazine and in bold black letters it said:  “Why Women Still Can’t Have it All”. The headline was further illustrated by a baby girl poking her head out of a briefcase being carried by a professionally dressed woman.

The first thought that came to my mind was, “But I don’t want to have it all!” My thought process was as such that I know where my priorities lie, and that is with my family. But my reality is that I have a lot of priorities (maybe too many), and there are times when the priority of my family conflicts with the myriad of other responsibilities I have outside of the home.

When I was a teenager, I remember boldly stating to my friends and family that I would not have children until I was in my 30’s, if at all. At the time, 30 seemed really old, and a long way off. When I was in my 20’s, I had embraced many of the philosophies identified with feminism. As part of this, I asserted to my then boyfriend, now husband, that if we were to get married I would not take his last name unless he was just as willing to take mine in a coin toss. I didn’t lose, but I did compromise after our marriage by legally changing my last name to be my middle name because hyphenating my long and difficult-to-pronounce Italian name seemed cumbersome in the end. In our wedding vows, we promised one another that if we were not blessed with children that we would be content with each other so long as we both shall live.

After being married for a few years, I began to think that having children was the next natural step in our lives together. And I also began to espouse that if we were to have children that I would like the option of being able to stay at home. Six years into our marriage, the reality of being able to pay our mortgage coupled with our desire to have a family began to wear on me. So, I made yet another compromise and we decided to forge ahead, knowing that I would become a “working mom”. Our son Gooby was born in 2008 and our daughter Cakes joined us (ahem, surprised us!) in 2011, when I was 31 and 33 years old respectively. At least I had not broken the promise I made to myself and others as a teenager.

After having twice enjoyed maternity leave (e.g. being a fulltime mom) and followed by enduring the inevitable return-to-work experience (e.g. being a working mom), I have come to realize a few things. First, I don’t know that I would want to be a fulltime mom. It’s really frickin hard. In fact at times, it seems a lot harder (or maybe different hard) than going to work. The 24 hour days, the isolation, the testing of my patience, the lack of cerebral stimulation, the lack of appreciation.

Second, I don’t know that I really want to be a working mom. The 5:00am rush to be awake, dressed, and ready to go before my kids start their day. The struggle to get out the door before 8:00am and the hour and a half childcare/pre-school drop off journey before reaching my final destination at work. The daily mind shift from the personal urgent/important priorities, to the professional urgent/important priorities. The excitement of seeing my kids for one hour each night when I arrive home, and the being anxious for them to go to bed because I am so very tired from my work day and I need a break. The looking forward to vegetating on the couch after bedtime, and the need to make one final push until 10:00pm because my husband and I also run a construction business and there are things that cannot wait until the morning, because I will not have time before 5:00am, when my day starts all over again.

So, I guess what I’m saying is, I reluctantly agree with The Atlantic headline. Women can’t have it all – because (for me at least) there is always compromise and internal conflict. We want our kids and family to be a priority, but we also want to make ourselves a priority (which happens less than I’d like it to). We want to stay home with our children, but we want to go to work. We want to go to work, but we want to be home.  I definitely don’t have all of the answer to this eternal dichotomy. And I, like all moms (working or stay-at-home), am most certainly exhausted. So, let me ask you: How do you find balance, peace, harmony, and acceptance in the life that you have chosen (or been blessed with)?

My water broke at 10:00pm. It was the first sign that my son was ready to make his entrance into this world. My husband and I quickly gathered our pre-packed hospital bags and headed straight for the hospital.  Sixteen long laboring hours later, little Gooby made his debut. When they placed my baby on my tummy, having just exited my womb, my first thought was “He is so warm!” As I examined him through the tears in my eyes my second thought was “He looks like a little rhinoceros!”  I know, it’s a strange thought to have about the looks of your first born child, but his skin was a bluish-gray, much like the color of a rhino. The medical staff immediately whisked Gooby from my arms as the cord had been wrapped around his body like a “sash”. They were concerned about his color and whether he was receiving enough oxygen. But judging by the sounds of his cries, I knew he would be just fine. I was even more amazed that if I called to him, or if my husband spoke to him, Gooby would immediately calm down. He absolutely knew us. We were already a family, and had been so, long before Gooby first felt the world’s cold air on his skin.

My mom stayed with us for 10 days to help us transition into our new roles as parents. Like all new parents, we were exhausted. We dealt with so many brand new issues like Gooby’s dehydration while we waited for  my milk to come in, and the fact that once my milk did arrive, I had no idea how to breastfeed. Also? Gooby would not stop crying. I know, I know! You are going to say all babies cry. But having had two children by now, I know that not all babies cry like Gooby did in his first months of life. Around the time my mom was preparing to leave us, she gently raised the idea of colic. I had a panic attack. Why? Because I am solution oriented. And for colic, there is NO solution. Zero. Zip. Nada.

When my husband and I went to Gooby’s 2 week check-up, we mentioned his un-ending crying. Our pediatrician casually said “Yes, he may have colic. It will subside around month 3 or 4.” My husband and I looked at each other and said “What?! That’s like forever away! How are we supposed to survive?!” When we returned for our one month appointment, our pediatrician prescribed baby Zantac. He saw that we were desperate for some cure to the colic and thought maybe Gooby had reflux. The Zantac did very little to quell the crying. He cried so much, I had no idea if his cries were because he was in pain, if he was tired, if he was hungry, or if he was just pissed. It all sounded the same to me. I cried a lot too, and around the same time Gooby started Zantac, I started Zoloft to treat the post-partum depression that had taken hold of my very being.

Being solution oriented, I sought other ways to regain some of the control we lost when Gooby joined us at home. Enter these two often controversial books: On Becoming Baby Wise and Secrets of the Baby Whisperer. I needed help, and these books provided it. Gooby was what the books called “Spirited” or “High Maintenance”. Both books preached putting baby on a predictable schedule – E.A.S.Y (Eat. Activity. Sleep. You.). YOU! After being so utterly focused on anything but myself, this sounded awesome, and it was! Instead of me trying to figure out Gooby’s impossible cues, I showed Gooby what we were going to do next. This meant he and I both felt more in control of our lives.

By the time Gooby was 10 weeks old, my post-partum was being successfully managed by the Zoloft, and I had finally started to figure out my kid. By 12 weeks old, Gooby’s crying began to dissipate, and he was sleeping up to 6 hours at night. Thank goodness, because at 13 weeks old, I had to go back to work. I remember telling a former neighbor of ours that I thought it was cruel that just when I was beginning to enjoy being a mom I had to leave my baby. My neighbor, a wise veteran dad, said “Yes, but you were able to be there for him when he needed you most.” It was true. I feel like we went to war and back together, and through our experiences Gooby and I had formed an unbreakable bond. He is my best friend. My little buddy. The little person that taught me how to be a mother – my most important accomplishment to date.

Over the last 3 ½ years, Gooby has shown himself to be precocious, funny, imaginative, smart, talkative, happy, loving, and a fantastic big brother.

We have noticed some unique attributes as well. Like the fact that Gooby never wakes up happy – instead, his day starts with a good cry. His tantrums, while normal for this stage in development, can last up to 2 hours. He is terrified of anyone touching his face, especially the doctor using a scope to look in his ears or in his mouth. This means I have avoided taking Gooby to the dentist. This leads me to Gooby’s unusual strength. He is like Incredible Hulk strong. It can take up to 4 adults to hold Gooby down for any examination. He is also floppy. When he hugs me, instead of just wrapping his arms around me, he more like melts into me. He is clumsy and somewhat uncoordinated. Last Tuesday he fell and hit his head while trying to get down from the breakfast table. He required 8 stitches, but in order to give him stitches, we had to sedate him in the ER due to his fear of anyone getting near his face. Perhaps most significantly, Gooby has trouble eating. Not only is he a messy eater (he still has to wear a bib); Gooby also stuffs his face to the point of choking. We have to watch him carefully and cut up his food up into very small pieces. And still, he chokes. He avoids tasks that require use of fine motor skills like writing and drawing, unbuttoning his pants or getting dressed or undressed himself. He has boundless energy – it feels like he goes and goes until he simply runs out of steam. And finally, at 3 ½ years old, he still drools. He drools so much that his preschool teachers change his shirt at least once per day. And no, he is not still teething. I personally do not know another 3 year old who drools like this.

It was regarding the drooling that I found myself searching, for the one millionth time, about how to help Gooby stop christening the world with his saliva. It was during this most recent Google-fest that I found a link discussing oral hypo sensitivity. An electric shock went through my body when I read this page, because Gooby fit all of the attributes described under hypo sensitivities. Why hadn’t my doctor mentioned this to me before? I mean, I’ve discussed my concerns about the drooling countless times and was told to “just wait it out.” While on this same website, I became intrigued by the other information available about Sensory Processing Disorder. After reading through various checklists, I determined that Gooby possessed enough attributes of the disorder to warrant a visit with his pediatrician. From what I understand, there is a spectrum of severity described on the website. In my opinion, Gooby is mildly affected by the symptoms he matches, though he is affected nonetheless. After reading more of the website, I started to cry. I was scared, and left wondering whether my child may have special needs.

So many people will read what I’m describing and write it off, saying things like “Oh, he is just a boy!” Or, “He is a typical preschooler.” And in so many ways, these statements are very true. But I always say a mother’s instinct is never wrong. With our pediatrician’s support, we are now embarking on a journey of discovery. A journey filled with speech and occupational therapists who will determine whether my son does in fact have a special need. I have no idea what adventures and challenges are beyond these initial evaluative steps. But I do know that I am a fierce advocate for my child, because the bond we developed in his formative first few months of life is, as I described, unbreakable. I will go to every length to ensure Gooby’s ultimate happiness in this world, and I have faith that I will succeed.

I sniff sniff sniffled as I watched my 3 year old son Gooby run down the pathway to our car last Monday morning. He was carrying his backpack on his back and it seemed as though it was enveloping his entire body. Gooby didn’t seem to notice though. He was more excited that he had his very own lunch zipped up inside the bag and, more importantly, that he was starting preschool that day. Just before I buckled him into his car seat I paused to take a picture to memorialize this momentous occasion.

We spent the last month counting down the days on Gooby’s superhero calendar in anticipation of his first day of school. To mark the big day, he picked an Ahsoka sticker from his Star Wars Clone Wars sticker collection. Every day in between was marked with various Marvel superheroes ranging from the Incredible Hulk to Wolverine. As Ahsoka day approached Gooby became increasingly excited. But just before we walked out the door last Monday morning, we had a total meltdown – “we” naturally meaning, both he and I.

I’m sure Gooby didn’t quite know why he felt such anxiety. But for me it was so many things. My baby is growing up! I am inviting more people than I have before into the shared responsibility of parenting and teaching my child. I am partial to my daycare provider with whom Gooby has been with since he was 3 months old. Over the course of the last 3 years, we have grown to love and immensely respect our daycare provider. She has played a central role in building our confidence as parents, and has allowed us to go to work each day knowing that Gooby has been cared for in the most compassionate way. She comforted Gooby when he was sick, kissed his ouchies when he fell down, and ran her fingers through his hair to help him relax before naptime. Our daycare provider changed nothing short of one million poopy diapers and was most recently the catalyst in our success in potty training Gooby this year. To put it mildly, our provider is incredible. So of course, with the start of preschool I worried that Gooby would never again experience the same love and care that he had with our daycare provider.

When we pulled up to Gooby’s preschool he launched out of the car and ran to the front door, leaving me in the dust. He made a friend (Nafan a.k.a. Nathan) instantly as I lingered around the cubbies nervously shifting my weight from one foot to another, biting the nail on my left thumb. Gooby’s teacher told him to say goodbye to me, which he did with great confidence and delight. Before I left I asked his teacher if she would help wipe his little booty if he happened to poop that day. Yah, that’s right. One of my biggest worries was whether the expectations of my baby would be, ahem, out of reach. As I went about my day I thought about Gooby a minimum of once every hour. I wondered what he was doing, if he was happy, whether he ate his lunch, if he napped, and if he had any potty accidents.

That evening, I nearly got a speeding ticket as I raced to pick him up at the end of the school day. When I arrived, Gooby was happily playing with his teacher and chit chatting with the cleaning staff who told me he was beautiful. He talked to me nonstop (no kidding!) the entire way home. He spent the evening in an unusually good mood and after dinner Gooby told me to close my eyes so that he could give me a surprise. I complied and, when instructed, opened my lids to see him proudly displaying the bits of paper he cut that day when he learned to use scissors for the first time. At bedtime I snuggled close to him in his little fire truck bed and asked him again to tell me about his day. He told me all about his adventures and, unprompted, told me that one of his “really nice” teachers rubbed his back to help him relax at naptime. It was in that moment that my anxiety lessened, and I was able to breathe a little easier. Apparently there are more people in this world interested in loving my child beyond my family and my daycare provider. While I know nobody will ever replace our daycare provider, I was heartened to discover that such love is still possible as Gooby’s world expands.

I have had a challenging few weeks. No, nothing earth shattering happened, and no, I have had no experiences that are unique from most mom’s daily challenges. But, to be fair to myself, I am putting it out there as a sort of general validation that it is alright that I’m feeling a bit defeated lately. We can’t always feel like we are hitting the ball out of the park…at least that’s what I keep saying to make myself feel better.

On Thursday of this past week I had made the decision that I was going to blog about my terrible, no good, horrible, very bad day that day. I thought most moms would be able to relate, and frankly I was itching to vent. My day on Thursday was the perfect example of how most of my days had been going recently. My 10 month old daughter Cakes was sick and home from daycare, I had a million work obligations and projects to complete, and my husband absolutely couldn’t reschedule his asphalt paving job (he is self-employed and we are hurting for money!). So I attempted to work from home while caring for Cakes. I had a good 9 hours of work on my plate, so on Thursday morning I took a deep breath and became super multi-tasking mommy (see, not any different from most moms)! I mean, I wouldn’t want to fail anyone, right? The mantra I was saying in my head that day went something like this: “Must be supermom. Must not skip a beat at work. Must give Cakes the attention she needs. Must answer every single work email and phone call. Must feed Cakes. Must change Cakes. Must complete everything on my work priority list. Must not fail. Must appear to have it together at all times.”

By around 4:00p.m. I felt like a failure. How could this have happened? I mean, I had accomplished most of my work obligations while simultaneously caring for my baby girl. The answer became very clear to me when Cakes woke up from her afternoon nap, her fever had spiked again to 101.4, and she was a desperate sobbing mess. Also? I realized I hadn’t eaten all day. Awesome. I failed at the most important two things – giving Cakes the attention she needed, and nourishing myself in order to provide the energy required to, um, LIVE and care for my baby. It was at that time (far too late in my opinion) that I decided that maybe work wasn’t so important after all.

I called the doctor, made an appointment for Cakes to be seen at 7:15p.m., ordered a pizza for dinner, and asked my mother-in-law come over to watch my son Gooby after he arrived home from daycare. The pizza arrived minutes before I had to leave to take Cakes to the doctor. I set Gooby up with a plate of food, put two slices of pizza on a paper plate for myself, and rushed out the door. I was so starving after not eating all day that I ate while driving to the doctor. It was at that time that I noticed the pizza appeared to be a bit crunchy. I thought it was an extra crispy pepperoni, but no, I was just eating a portion of the tooth that was breaking off in my mouth (have I mentioned that I haven’t been to the dentist in 11 months?). Anyhoots, Cakes and I made it to the doctor, received a potential diagnosis of roseola (since she had not yet exhibited the tell-tale rash that did eventually appear on Saturday morning), and I rushed home to finish the bedtime routine and clean up the house. I ended my day exhausted and in bed by 10:30p.m.

When I woke up Friday I made an important decision. I was not going to work that day despite the fact that I still had projects to complete. Instead, I decided to spend the day focusing on my kids, and only my kids. I didn’t attempt to clean the house, do laundry, or do the dishes. I didn’t attempt to check my work email 10,000 times. We left the house at 9:30a.m. for a visit to Gooby’s new preschool. I dropped five bucks off at my daycare provider’s house so that we could participate in her Mega Millions lottery pool (one can dream, right?!). I took the kids to the park and swung on the swings with Cakes while watching Gooby clime the faux rock wall. We went to Chipotle and ate lunch (Gooby’s favorite). We came home and napped together for 2 hours. And finally, before dinner, I took both kids on a walk to a nearby park and experienced this:

That’s right. Pure bliss. Just like that, I had turned my terrible, no good, horrible, very bad day the previous day into one of the best I could remember. I didn’t do anything that unique, except spend an entire day focused on my kids. It was awesome.

A few years back I read an article in Parenting magazine entitled “Mad at Dad”. The article provides the results of a survey of more than 1,000 mothers about their levels of stress pertaining to parenting and how that cultivates feelings of anger toward their significant other. While I could relate to a lot of the article, the one point that hit home to me was the difference between men and women’s ability to multi-task. As the article states, “He gets to focus on one thing at a time. Meanwhile, she’s trying to cook with human leg warmers clinging to her shins”. Does this sound familiar? For me, this reminds me of the times my husband has stayed home with one of our kids while they were sick. After working a full day, I come home to a house that is an absolute disaster. While I stare at the mess in utter dismay, my kids are running around happy as can be, and my husband is telling me what a fantastic day they had together. That just pisses me off because his day with the kids (sick or not) is not at all like the days I am responsible for the kids. The difference? Dad + Kids = No Multitasking. In my quest to be super-working-mommy, I set myself up for failure and defeat every time I try to divide my attention 10,000 ways. I’m not saying that it’s possible to focus 100 percent of my energy on my kids every day, but it is an important factor to remember while building my relationship with my kids. If mom is happy, the kids are happy. If the kids are happy, then mom is happy. Plain and simple. Let’s face it, I would rather watch my kids smile their faces off than go to work or have a clean house any day. We all have obligations, but try not to be too hard on yourself while you are at it, will ya’? (Said to myself as much as to every other kick-butt mom out there).

Meet my son, Gooby. He is 3 years old and, as my first born, is the amazing little person who taught me how to be a mom. And, in case you are wondering, Gooby is not his real name. He earned this nickname when he was a few days old because his colic and reflux, plus his very expressive brow, reminded us of the cartoon character Mr. Magoo. The name eventually morphed into Gooby and stuck. On his recent preschool enrollment forms, I described Gooby as spirited, imaginative, creative, emotional, moody, and expressive. Though what I really wanted to say was, “My son actually thinks he is Spider Man, a Power Ranger, and Luke Skywalker combined. He is borderline obsessed with firemen and construction workers, and I once thought he had developed the hoarding disease due to his relentless pilfering of trash and common household items which can be found stuffed to the brim in his Fisher Price toolbox (which he also pretends is a kitchen).”

Like all first-time moms, when I was pregnant with Gooby I worried whether he would be born healthy, wondered what he would look like, and hoped (and still do!) that he would not be plagued with some of the mental health struggles that exist in both my husband’s and my own family history. Throughout my pregnancy, I often tried to imagine how I would be as a mom and wondered if it would be difficult to accept my child for however he turned out. Though I love my husband and my parents, I had never actually created another human being from scratch, and did not have experience with the extreme physical and emotional investment of being a parent. But the truth is, when Gooby was born, those worries did not hold their weight. Those worries didn’t matter, because I knew the moment I set eyes on my son that I would love this little person with all of my being, and most importantly, without conditions.  Since the day Gooby was born, this is the world in which we have continued to exist inside our family. And it’s awesome. However, I also know that unconditional acceptance of all human beings is not transferrable to the real world.

As parents, I’m sure we have all received the unsolicited piece of “advice” from a random person on the street about our child(ren). We have all received the sideways glance from a stranger in the grocery store judging our style of managing an unexpected toddler meltdown.  We have all felt judged as parents at one time or another. And in turn, we have judged ourselves. Though I am not proud of it, I will admit that I too have judged others, certainly contributing to the perpetual cycle of parental insecurities. Perhaps it is a rite of passage. Or maybe it is a coping mechanism. Regardless, it sucks.

As a mom who works fulltime outside the home, I must entrust the care of my children to others. My husband and I don’t have family that lives near us, so both of my kids attend a phenomenal in-home daycare. Gooby started at daycare when he was 3 months old. Over the years we have relished in our provider’s recounting of Gooby’s life without us while we are at work. We enjoy celebrating Gooby’s successes and we learn from his failures. This means that early on, we had to develop the skill of receiving (and appropriately reconciling) feedback that may differ from our own opinion about our child. And I will say that as a mother, hearing anything short of positive feedback about Gooby has been the most challenging part of all. Because receiving criticism from my daycare provider about my kid, constructive as it may be, is not the same as hearing it from the random stranger on the street, or in the grocery store. This feedback holds more weight. I have to listen. I have to reconcile. I have to learn. I have to accept that not everyone thinks that my kid is as perfect as I think he is. This is the real world, after all.

This past week, my daycare provider talked with my husband about Gooby’s obsession with ninjas, swords, guns, and battles. Turns out, that what we think is innocent boyish play in our house, may not jive so well with other parents whose children attend the daycare. After receiving this feedback, my husband came home to discuss it with me. My instinct was to immediately feel protective of Gooby’s imagination and creativity…and of my own parental ego. Because not only did this feedback put into question Gooby’s utter perfection, it also questioned my parenting skills. I started doubting myself, asking internal questions like, “Have I been a bad mom because I haven’t cared enough that Gooby likes to shoot toy guns? Am I influencing violence in society by allowing him to watch television shows that have some violent themes, like Power Rangers and Spider Man? Am I perpetuating society’s stereotypes of boys vs. girls by not encouraging Gooby to play with more gender neutral toys?” And really, I was embarrassed. So my husband spent some time talking me down from my emotional ledge into the world of logic.

Gooby is not alone at daycare. His actions have influence on other children. And in turn, those children will have influence on him. But man, it is tough not to have complete control over every situation. It is heart wrenching to know that I will not always be able to protect my kid. And as he grows older, I know this will only become bigger in scale and consequence, and ultimately more difficult to manage. So in the end, I realized that I have to respect the rights of other parents to express their opinion about how my child might be influencing their own. And one day I will also need to go to bat for my own children, because that is what parents are programmed to do. Ultimately, I am thankful to have a daycare provider that I consider our parenting partner. I am grateful that I have a daycare provider that I respect, and that I know loves and cares for my children when I cannot be with them. That is all any parent can ask for.

Let me set the scene for you. A woman is standing alone, in a private room. She is wearing a knee length, black and white, pin-striped dress that zips up the back and has a sweet black silk ribbon that ties around her waist. On her feet are a pair of shiny black high heeled pumps that buckle across the top of each foot. Today this woman took great care in shaving her legs, specifically for the occasion of wearing this dress. Standing in this room, the woman searches for a place to make herself comfortable and ultimately settles for a chair just across the room. Once seated, she carefully unties the black ribbon around her waist and slowly hikes the dress up, over her waist, above her rib-cage, and eventually reveals her bra. The only thing between her and the chair are a pair of underwear. Next, the woman unsnaps her bra to reveal her breasts because now it’s time for some sweet release.

Okay, let me stop here to assure you that I am not describing a sexy scene out of an adult movie (though it sort of feels that way). The woman I am talking about is me. I’m at work, in my office conference room, on a day that I decided to wear a dress that is not easily accessible for my four times daily task of expressing breast milk (a.k.a. sweet release) for my 9 month old daughter. And let me tell you, there is nothing like getting practically naked at work, worrying that someone is going to accidentally enter the room while I have two flanges sucking at my boobs. While I typically try not to wear outfits that require me to sit on a conference room chair in my underwear, I do fully expose my breasts daily in said conference room while others in my office are working just outside the door. I recently did the math and discovered that each week, I spend 9.33 hours pumping. That is slightly more than 1 entire day per month of round-the-clock pumping. And being a busy mom, with a full time job, that blows my mind! No wonder I don’t have time to work out!

Just before Christmas last year I was laying in bed with my daughter, referred to hereafter as Cakes (one of our many nicknames for her). So, I’m snuggling with Cakes as she nurses just before bedtime. My husband is next to us and I said to him “I’m so glad I have been able to nurse Cakes. It’s such an amazing experience.” A few days later, we left home to spend a week in Santa Cruz with my family to celebrate the holidays. I was very excited because being off work meant I didn’t have to pump for 10 whole days. Did I mention that I hate pumping just as much as I love nursing? Yah, well, I do. I hate all of the equipment. I hate having to wash the one million parts that go along with pumping. I hate packing that darn pump bag up and carting it with me to work every single day. I hate waking up in the morning to realize I forgot to run the dish washer the night before, so therefore have to wash the one million parts by hand for the one millionth time – and that I will be late for work. But I digress. Back to Santa Cruz during the holidays.

We had a blast watching our kids play at the beach on Christmas day, and we returned home refreshed and ready (almost) to go back to the daily grind. But a few days before returning to work I was enjoying one of my nursing sessions with Cakes, and then she bit me. Have you ever been bitten by brand new, sharp little baby teeth – on your nipple? Um, it really friggin HURTS! So I screamed, which scared Cakes into a sobbing mess. So, I tried to put her back on, and she bit me again. I got so pissed I ended the session (which is what all lactation consultants will tell you to do). The next time Cakes was due for a feeding I was hopeful that she had forgotten her nipple slicing technique so we could return to our quality time together. But NOPE! It went on like this for two weeks during which time, Cakes decided she hates my boobs altogether and cried when she got near me [insert devastating blow to the mom ego here]. Cakes went on a nursing strike. Per my lactation consultant’s advice, I tried to nurse at each feeding and if she refused, my husband gave her a bottle of my pumped breast milk. I was also told that Cakes may or may not go back to nursing. And guess what? She never did. Cakes stopped nursing at 7 months old. Cakes preferred the bottle to me. Cakes rejected me, after I worked so darn hard to nurse in the first place. Because let’s face it, nursing is really hard with a newborn (even when you’ve mastered it with previous kids!).

I had overcome the sleepless nights. I had survived the round-the-clock every two hour feedings. I had grit my teeth through nursing a newborn Cakes with swollen, sore, and cracked nipples. I had mastered the art of tending to my 3-year-old son’s needs with a baby attached to my chest. I had sacrificed my freedom and my body for Cakes because she is so worth it. And she rejected me.

So, for the last 3 months, I have been exclusively pumping. Because what better way to prove to myself that I am invincible than to spend even more time doing something I hate? At Cake’s 9 month appointment her pediatrician (who is also a mom of 3) asked me if I was still nursing. I explained the strike and she automatically assumed I was formula feeding. When I told her “No, I’m pumping all of her milk” the pediatrician looked at me and said “Okay, if you want to be a hero.” Don’t all mom’s want to be superheroes? Even the pediatrician, who promotes that “breast is best” for the first year of life, told me that she did not continue to pump when she returned to work. Yet somehow I cannot stop. I cannot give myself a break. Boy, I could really use that extra 36 hours per month to feel less stressed, or even to take better care of myself. But I can’t get over the nagging voice in my head that keeps saying “Do not fail your daughter.”

Love. Sacrifice. Guilt. Judgment. Unconditional. Unadulterated. Love. These are just some of the many ingredients that make up the complicated, yet delicious recipe of a mother. And so, I carry on. Because I am afraid to fail this little being.

I’m sure you can relate. Being a mom, my life is full of things I have to do, in order to get to do the things I want to do. I have been looking forward to introducing myself to everyone as the new Working Mommy blogger and can’t wait to get down to it. But, right this moment, I have 30 minutes before I have to pump more breast milk for my 9 month old daughter, and my 3 year old son is shooting me in the face with his Star Wars “blaster”. Why didn’t I spend this lovely Saturday’s successful 2 hour naptime to begin my blogging journey uninterrupted and without boobs that are sending electric shock signals that they are ready to roll? That’s because during naptime, well, I wanted to nap.

Okay, so good news, my son has moved on to pretending he is a ninja, and my boobs can wait. Please allow me to introduce myself. I am the new Working Mommy, though to be clear, all moms are working moms – hard working at that. I also have a few other gigs that are away from my kids. I work full time as the Operations and Human Resources Manager at a nonprofit foundation in San Mateo. I’ve worked with this organization for nearly 7 years and absolutely love it. Most recently, I have had the privilege of helping to lead the start-up and transition strategy for a new nonprofit organization we’ve created to expand on the work we have already been doing to get underserved youth connected with the outdoors. So basically, I have an awesome job – which makes me lucky. At least when I have to leave my kids, it’s to do something I believe in. I also work part-time (for free), managing the business operations of my husband’s construction business. Most of this work happens at night, on the weekends, or anywhere else in between. So also, I’m ridiculously tired. But these are the things I have to do, in order to provide the life I want to give to my children.

I know I’m not the first, nor will I be the last, mother to have forged her way through the professional world. I personally come from a generation of moms who work(ed) outside the home. My grandmother, who is now 88, had to work outside the home in the 1950’s while also raising four little girls. At that time, it was essentially unheard of to have a mom with a job. And such circumstances signaled certain economic challenges to those who made judgment calls about the class of one family or another. But man, my grandma is seriously cool. In 1943, she abandoned her own dreams of graduating college to get married before my grandfather was sent off to war. Eventually, my grandparents had a family, and my grandma stepped up to help pay the bills since my grandpa was also working two or three jobs. Although my grandma spent the majority of her life being a fantastic mom, she never forgot she was also an individual. Forty years later, my grandma went back to college to follow-through on her dreams and received an undergraduate degree when she was 58 years old. My grandma rubbed off on my own mom big time. She was originally a stay-at-home mom, but eventually went back to school to earn a certificate as a paralegal and returned to work full time to, you guessed it, help pay the bills. My mom continues to work in this profession more than 20 years later, and is now the sole bread winner in her household as she cares for my father who is disabled and retired.

I do strongly believe that expectations of moms have increased exponentially with each generation. We are expected to be here, there, and everywhere. We are expected to do more, in a shorter amount of time, and with much higher quality. And still, we put expectations on ourselves to take on the brunt of the parental and household management duties, despite the fact that we are working just as hard as our partners outside the home. It’s just in our blood to do so!

As we all juggle together, I look forward to sharing my thoughts and experiences with you from the perspective of a woman, mother, and professional. Specifically, I want to relate to you all from a place of shared experiences. I have navigated my way through maternity leave and back (twice). I have pioneered the creation of a flexible work schedule for myself and other mom’s with whom I work. I have gone through the stress and anxiety of searching for a daycare provider to take care of my kids for 45 hours a week while I work. I have had to leave work in the middle of an important meeting to pick up a sick kid (too many times to count!). I have been up all night with a crying baby and then trudged my way through a board meeting the next day. I have pumped breast milk in my office conference room, office bathroom, janitor’s closet, and my co-worker’s car on the way to a meeting. And I bet you have too. So let’s do this together and support one another. Because who couldn’t use an extra hand, or three?