Crossing to Safety

I'm re-reading Crossing to Safety, a book I first read at least ten years ago, and which I loved at the time (in the way I often love books--wholeheartedly, gushedly, and recommending them to everyone I meet).  I've found this reading a very different experience.  Although I'm still very much engaged by the story and find the writing, at times, very good, I have been incredibly off-put by the tone and narrative voice.

The book begins in the late 1930s, at the end of the Great Depression, where two couples meet in Madison, Wisconsin, where the men are interim professors at the university.  Their wives are both pregnant, and the couples become fast friends.  The novel focuses on their subsequent, lifelong friendship and jumps between the early days of their friendship and the present day when, aged grandparents, they reconvene on the Vermont summer compound where they had spent so much time.

It's a story of friendship that is gently, lovingly told.  There's a strange tic, however, to the point of view.  The narrator is the male half of one couple, devoted to his wife and yet strangely ambivalent to the child she gives birth to at the beginning of the novel.  He seems completely dissociated from the child, almost resentful, and certainly makes frequent reference to the times his wife was as she was before the child or could forget the existence of the child and be carefree.  It's bizarre.

But I suppose it fits with the way both couples live their lives.  The way the story is told, the children play very little part when their young--they're spirited away by their nanny, while the adults have late dinners and go skinny dipping at midnight or take week-long hiking trips.  I never would have picked up on this before having E., but it's glaringly obvious to me now.  I can't imagine raising a child that way, can't imagine giving birth to it but then relegating it to the background during its most formative years.

But then I wonder two things.  First, perhaps the story really is just a reflection of the male narrator.  Perhaps if the story were told from the perspective of one of the women, the children would play a much larger role.

Second, I suppose it could be observed that we are raising our child no differently.  However, instead of relegating her to a nanny while we go on fun outings with our friends, we leave her with someone else while we go to work and pursue our careers.

It feels different, though.  But maybe the distinction is merely semantic.

New Beginnings

Inspired by a friend, I thought I'd dust off this defunct old blog and give it new life and with a new (though certainly not inspired) purpose: the conflict of a working (new) mama.

I have been incredibly fortunate.  My daughter was born during my last semester of law school,  a time when, although I had classes, I also had an incredibly flexible schedule that allowed me to be home with E. most of the time.  After graduating, studying for the bar exam proved equally flexible.  For the first seven months of her life, I was E.'s primary caregiver.  We spent most of our days together, and while at times I resented the monotony and the frustration of long days spent with an infant, I look back on those months with a mix of gratitude and wistfulness.

Around the time she turned seven months old, I started work at my new job and officially became a Working Mama.  I am still incredibly fortunate, in that E. spends her days with my parents, and that I have a job that allows me to leave early enough to spend several hours at home with E., cooking dinner and playing with her, before she has to go to bed.  Even more than that, I'm fortunate to work in a job I love.  The day I started work, I sat at my new computer, with my first assignment open on the desk in front of me, and I couldn't contain the sense of glee I felt at the prospect of eight hours to myself, where I could focus on one thing, think long and hard about it, and perhaps come to an answer.  It would be the first time in seven months that I'd been able to focus on a task for more than two hours.  It was, and continues to be, almost perfectly blissful.  And it's one of the many reasons I look forward to getting to work each morning.

And yet . . .

I miss that time I had with E.  Leaving her in the morning is exquisitely painful.  As she gets older and is close to both walking and talking, she is infinitely more exciting and expressive.  I want to bottle her essence.  I don't want to miss a second of her discovering life.  I want to be the one to take her to doctor's appointments, to the park, and to the library.  I want to be the one who sings to her before she takes her naps.  I want sit across from her as we eat lunch together.

This is my conflict and, I imagine, the conflict of many mamas who, either by choice or by necessity, spend their days away from their babies.  On the one hand, I know it is important for my mental and emotional well-being that I pursue my chosen career, one that stretches and exercises my brain daily.  In addition, I believe it is vital both that my daughter see me doing this and that I represent another mama in my profession who will force the workplace to become more flexible for men and women who choose to raise families.  On the other hand, my baby is changing every second, and I hate that I'm not there to witness it.  I cannot stop the intense, unbidden jealousy of my mama friends who spend their days with their babies.*  I cannot keep from feeling, often, that I am abdicating my duties as a parent by allowing someone else to care for her during the day (even if it is my own mother).  I cannot always ignore the tiny, nagging voice that tells me I'm missing it.

So I do what many of us do.  I scroll through saved photos and videos of E. during my hours at work.  I jealously guard my evenings and weekends with her.  I snatch every free day to spend with her.  And, at the same time, I try to be the very best at my job.  Because, frankly, if I'm not going to be the best at it, what's the point?  Why spend 40+ hours away from my sweet girl if I'm going to be doing something mediocre?

I know I'm not the only one who feels this way.  I hope to check back in weekly, with a new meditation on where this dual life has led me.  Join me along the way.


*For what it's worth, I completely recognize that the challenges and frustrations of a stay at home mom are no less significant than the ones I face on a daily basis.  That doesn't stop me from envying the time they have with their babies.