Discovered At Last: The Source of Parental Resentment

There was a lot of buzz in the news this spring about some guy finding the G-spot on a dead
woman. (We won't be really impressed until you find it on a living woman, buddy.) After two
weeks with my mother, I was more interested in identifying the exact moment we start to resent our parents. Some have speculated it comes when you learn that other kids got an Atari for Easter and you just got chocolate, around 9, or when you discover your parents have been giving you a dorky haircut, around 11, or when they insist on showing your friends the adorable picture of you in your headgear, around 13.

But I, my friends, have found the true moment: when you begin potty training. After spending
days trapped with someone who keeps asking you, "Do you have to use the potty? How about now?" it's hard to love. And you start to resent the potty pretty quickly too. But you’ll do anything to get those precious stickers, including saying you have to use the potty, getting a sticker for trying, and then peeing on the bathroom floor.

We decided to try this “Three-Day Potty Training” thing. Cookie was the right age (the woman who came up with it says you can start at 22 months, and Cookie was 23 months), she seemed eager to get out of diapers, and I figured what harm was there in trying? Plenty of people I know had heard of plenty of people for whom it worked, so there ya go. She’d be potty trained by the time she was two, and if this didn’t work, well, she wasn’t even
two yet, so early days.

I prepared excitedly: bought panties, frozen meals, spare sheets, and little gifts; blocked off
five days where we wouldn’t leave the house – two extra, just in case; moved lots of toys and
activities into her room, which is right next to the bathroom; prepared a “Potty Progress” sticker chart; started dropping hints like, “Soon you’ll be going pee in the potty like a big girl”; and steeled myself for three days of full-on toddler. When the big day came, she loved her new panties, was excited about the idea of peeing in the potty, and craved the stickers. And then she peed on the floor. Again and again and again.

The book says that many kids don’t get it until the end of the third day. The book also says that the whole idea that a toddler has to be ready is bullshit. Whether or not she’s ready, Cookie is at the stage where she is testing her boundaries and asserting her independence and basically doing the opposite of everything you ask, even when you use that trick where you ostensibly give her the power: “It’s your job to tell me when you need to go pee.” It may be her job, but she’s smart enough to figure out that you’re the boss, and she’s feeling particularly rebellious at this stage in her career. So by the end of day four, she was still peeing on the floor, often looking me straight in the eyes after I had just said, “Remember to tell me when you need to go pee.” I was frustrated and, sadly, disappointed. More in myself than in Cookie, really; I felt that I’d failed the “guaranteed in three days!” parenting test. No longer able to hide my frustration when overwhelming positivity was required, nervous about spending a fifth day trapped in two small rooms with an equally frustrated child, and frankly sick of pee, I called it off.

There has to be a better way. Besides peeing in the playground, that is.  And I will look into it, but I need a break. Cookie needs a break. Her bedroom carpet needs a break. And so does our relationship.

I love her unconditionally, so even though at times I took the peeing as defiance, it was easy
to remind myself that it was likely due more to confusion, and that it was nothing personal.
Although often it looked a lot like defiance. And of course, if it was due to confusion, that meant I had failed her, and therefore the implicit parenting test. Sigh. But it was hard to ignore the other signs of acting out that arose from our confinement: hitting, talking back, running and hiding. These were all new to us. They would have happened eventually, but there seemed to be a pretty direct correlation. That broke my heart.

On the evening of the fourth day, she refused to go to sleep. After countless stories, she stood in her crib and screamed, so Daddy took over. That was still a struggle, but at one moment there was a moment of (relative) brightness: Cookie told Daddy to go back to work. Maybe it was just Stockholm syndrome, but after being trapped with me for four days, I was still her favourite bedtime parent. There’s hope for us yet.

My doctor told me recently that she had started trying to talk to her 11-year-old daughter
about "things," in the hope that her daughter could learn from her mistakes and avoid some of the humiliation and pain and missteps of adolescence. But her daughter just rolled her eyes. We talked about how much we want the kind of relationship with our daughters where they could feel comfortable talking about anything with us and vice versa, but inevitably they would roll their eyes and make the same mistakes we did, so why bother? My doctor says the important thing is just that they know we’re there, unconditionally. And that’s the hard part: making sure they know. When it was clear that I could no longer show Cookie I was behind her no matter what, I cancelled potty training. Trust between mother and daughter is a precious, fragile thing.

Three-day potty training may work for you. It didn’t for me this time, and I’m not sure I would try it again. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t check it out. Although, as someone who works in publishing, I believe that for $24 (for an ebook!) I should at least get something that’s well written. Which this isn’t.

-East End Mama

I Hate My Playground

Playgrounds are like high school. There are cliques, and there’s judgment, and it’s hard to find your place. And that’s just for the parents.

My playground has three distinct cliques: the moms, the nannies, and the grandmas. The
nannies are sweet and chatty and good with Cookie, but spend most of their time chatting
with each other in Tagalog. The grandmas ask questions and look sceptically at how Cookie
is dressed (Not enough layers? Too many?), but at least they talk to me. But I just can’t break
into the mom clique, despite my smiles and hellos and determination to be open and warm.
Sometimes they give me a condescending smirk, but that’s about it. What’s wrong with me this time?

Much like in high school, I end up drawing the outcasts: the slightly delayed teenager walking his dog; the eccentric mom wearing the Value Village fake fur coat in summer. I’m done with that phase of my life. I just want normal friends.

One possible answer to my shunning by the moms is that I have only one kid. All the moms
seem to have two kids: one three- or four-year-old racing around and terrorizing the two-year-
olds, and one baby strapped into a carrier. I have a two-year-old, who only gets in the way of
the bigger kids and can’t join in. I have nothing to offer. Plus, I don’t know the “rules.”

Cookie is magnetically drawn to the giant, steep, eighties-era metal slide. So one day I indulged her and took her down the slide. I went down with her so I could control the speed and she wouldn’t be launched off the end like so many other kids I’ve seen. But as soon as we got to the bottom, a little boy ran up to us and yelled, “That slide is not for babies!”

“I know. That’s why I went down with her,” I started to explain, before I realized I was justifying my behaviour to a four-year-old.

I avoided the slide after that. Cookie would pull my arm and whine, but I’d try to calmly
explain, “No, that slide’s not for you. When you’re bigger, you can go on it.” But I hated myself for giving in to the judgment of a four-year-old. If Cookie’s brave enough to want to go down the big slide, I should encourage her sense of adventure, shouldn’t I?

One day at the playground, as I watched kids zoom head-first down the throw-back slide,
I received a forward from my sister of an article that had appeared in the New York Times.
It was about how playgrounds are now too safe, and psychologists are finding that kids today are more anxious because they aren’t able to conquer their fears of speed and heights the way we did: at the playground. Slides and climbing structures are too short and sturdy. Traditional teeter-totters and merry-go-rounds— or “Physics 101” — no longer exist. Paradoxically, as with SUVs, children are suffering more serious injuries because the cushioned surfaces these structures are built on give the illusion of safety. When we were balanced precariously eight feet over asphalt, we were much more careful because we knew for sure that falling would be a bad thing.

That just made me feel worse about not allowing Cookie on the big-kid slide.

Then, one Saturday morning, I discovered something amazing: there are times when the
playground is populated solely by dads and kids. That Saturday morning I was the only mom, and I noticed an amazing thing: all the dads were sending their two-year-olds, unaccompanied, down Big Silver. So this time, when Cookie started pulling me towards the slide, I didn’t resist. I helped her up the steps, then clambered back down and around to catch her at the bottom. She loved it, I loved it, and no one judged us. No one talked to us either, again, but I didn’t care about that.

There’s another magic time when there are just dads in the playground: between 5:30 and
6:00, when the moms go home to cook supper and the nannies go home to their own families. Dads take over, and the tension dissipates. Or maybe that’s just my perception, but last time I was there at that time, one of the dads was openly drinking a beer, so trust me, it was a pretty relaxed environment.

I’m not going to give up on mom time, though. Women are a pretty self-hating lot, and I don’t
want to be a part of that. I go through the world forcing myself into the attitude that people
wish only the best for others, rather than the default defensive attitude that most of us seem
to carry. I continue to smile at other moms and open myself to conversational opportunities
and encourage Cookie to interact with kids she doesn’t know. And one day, someone will
genuinely smile back and ask my name (rather than just Cookie’s), and I will finally find my
place in this “family” neighbourhood. Until then, I romantically imagine myself as Kate Winslet’s character in Little Children, distancing herself from the other mothers at the playground, listening in on their inane conversations but not deigning to participate. Minus the affair with the hot stay-at-home dad, of course. Although I may start packing a flask in my diaper bag for cocktail hour.

-East End Mama

Bitchy Lions, Episode 3

Long story short, a conversation arose today where my boss looked me in the eye and pretty much challenged me to tell her if I was planning on returning to work after my next mat leave (which doesn’t even start for 4.5 more months!)

Well, I am pretty sure she can’t ask things like that but I had some brilliant moment of clarity (rare for a Monday) where I shot back, “Do you want me back? What is my incentive?”

And not one word of a lie, one short conversation and one email later she is asking me what an ideal (and realistic) raise would be! WHAT? Did a pregnant woman just get asked what her career goals and salary expectations are!? Hold the phone!
Side note: I asked for $5k, my husband says I should have said $10k and landed at $8k… baby steps, I say.

I do have to keep my excitement in check however, because a lot of our talk was (air quote) hypothetical. Refreshing nonetheless to be asked and not just shooed out the door with a pat on the head. Maybe all my eye rolling and belly-aching (literal and metaphorical) about the plight of mother’s made an impact? Or maybe they like me? Or maybe it is another “Super Moon”?

Regardless, I am now in the tricky spot of guilt. Should I choose not to go back I will be branded as the ungrateful one who took a (hypothetical) raise and never returned? Will I be the one they sparked a dialogue with who ran for the hills? Or worse, will I be the mom who comes back with two preschool kids who looks and smells like shit everyday and is on the receiving end of a lot of pitiful looks from Holt Renfrew clad Bitchy Lions? Oh god.

Why I can’t I just get a raise and be happy?

-Tightrope Mama


[image source: wikipedia]

Time flies …

You know what I used to have a lot of time for? Oh, Everything.

I used to have two jobs and still regularly go to yoga, take a tap class, see all my
friends and play ultimate Frisbee. You know what I have time for now? Two haircuts
a year.

In my case, this second pregnancy has been nothing like the first.
I have fleeting moments where I think "I should do yoga" or " I should take a
prenatal vitamin" but really my outside - the - womb child is calling all the shots.
So again, catholic guilt rears it's ugly head. I obviously can't ignore W, but I really am
not paying as much attention to this fetus as I did the last time. Not. Even. Close.
And I suppose that when the newborn comes, W will inevitably wait while I nurse
and diaper change and do all things baby. But let's deal with that tantrum when it
comes, shall we?

In the meantime, this baby is making me fiercely nauseous in a way W never did.
I am also growing at an alarming rate. Last time I held off on maternity pants till 4
months, this time 10 short weeks and I was living in elastic waistband world.
I am taking this as a sign. This baby refuses to let me forget s/he is already using
their voice and reminding me, "mommy, I'm here" mommy, feed me" " mommy, I'm
not complacent". Sigh.
Not that I want an utterly complacent child but I could use just a little slack.

As I write this I am in a hotel room in a decadent European city on a business trip. I
have forgone a nice dinner for a Panini and sleep... I am petrified my colleagues all
know that I am hiding a pregnancy. I don't know what is more obvious saying “no
thank you” to wine after a 9 hour work day or going to bed at 8pm? Either way I will
be wearing a tent soon enough so they will all know.

-Tightrope Mama

[image: vanityfair]

Co Sleeping

to see more, visit How to Be a Dad

Before Lo came I was totally against the practice of co sleeping. I had heard
of a number of horrible stories about co sleeping and the child being harmed.
The horror stories stuck in my mind and I swore up and down that I would not co
sleep.

Well, that changed!!

The first time I co slept with Lo was when he was 5 days old. The lactation
consultant was encouraging me to try feed Lo lying down. I would keep saying
that I do not need to practice that as I am not co sleeping. The consultant
encouraged me to rethink and was able to provide a number of facts and myth
busters about co sleeping. Dr Sears summarized the different thoughts about
co sleeping on his website.

Day 5 at the hospital I was exhausted – I had not slept and we were going home.
The nurse had suggested that Lo sleep with me in the bed – I did not resist.
It was the first time the two of slept for more than an hour or 2 in five days.
Heaven.

Once I was home, I was still very weary of co sleeping. I went a good couple of
months with Lo in a basinet. I would feed him and put him gingerly back into the
basinet. This routine became more and more stressful as that ginger lift into the
basinet was rarely successful. Lo would not settle. One night … well morning
actually, I gave up and co slept. And once again we both slept for at least 6
hours.

We then we became a co sleeping unit.

The next challenge – weaning the co sleeping.

-Gray Mama

[images: howtobeadad.com]

Tame(r) Lions

I am new to writing and new to posting things on the Internet, so I am still having heart palpitations about sort-of calling some people I know ‘Bitchy Lions’.
Maybe that was harsh? Maybe I was/am emotional…  maybe.
Truth be told, we all come to our various jobs with our daily baggage dragging behind us.

On a rare sane day I can appreciate that a woman not having a child doesn’t mean she doesn’t ‘get’ me. Sure, she doesn’t ‘get’ my day-to-day and she isn’t covered in bruises from being constantly kicked by a toddler, but she certainly has her own woes. I get that now in a way I maybe wasn’t willing to see on the day I wrote the first ‘Bitchy Lion’ entry. When I wrote that I was angry and sad and confused about my life choices. I still am, but less so. One of my boss’s favorite things to say about me is that I am nicer since becoming a mom. So maybe that is why I am writing this now. Maybe I have become too nice to call someone a bitch and stick with it.

As you know, I am pregnant again and just worked up the nerve to tell my boss at four months in. She actually teared up and was happy. I could see she was. On a long work trip years ago she told me she had really wanted kids and it just never happened. I think about that a lot.

And then she inevitably told her boss, the Den Mother (without any cubs), whom she assures me was also quite happy and was just glad I wasn’t quitting. Am I quitting? It sort of feels that way.

-Tightrope Mama

Registry Do’s and Don’ts

I’m off to a baby shower this weekend, which has me reflecting on those things
we put on our baby registries that we never touched.

A nursing canopy

A completely laughable item. The word “canopy” makes me think of sitting
in a shady place on a hot day sipping bourbon and lemonade while Johnny
Depp’s character from Chocolat fans me. While, in actuality, a nursing canopy is
equivalent to an X-ray vest for your child. It is hot and uncomfortable, and you’ll
be dying to remove it the whole time it is on. If you have a feisty babe (as I do),
he or she will learn how to rip it off almost immediately and will likely bite you in
the process. Get over it; everyone will see your boob. If you are desperate to be
modest, leave the room. I have nursed on more toilets than I care to count.

A swaddle blanket

As a pregnant mom, you will read about how babes love to be swaddled!
Swaddling is akin to being in heaven, apparently. Well, again, not for my baby.
And I have to admit that as I Velcroed him into his swaddling outfit, it did feel a bit
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest-ish.

If you do happen to have a swaddle addict, I suggest a regular old blanket (which
costs, oh, twenty dollars less, by the way).

A sling carrier

I am sorry; I just never got the hang of this. Wrap him in what? Tie the fabric
where? As much as I liked the idea of being hands-free with babe, that is what
it is: an idea. Babies like to be HELD and CARRIED — and oh yes, they like
breathing, which I always felt seemed a bit arduous in those things.

If you really want to be a hero, here are some things you should buy your friends
for their showers:

My Brest Friend pillow

The ONLY breastfeeding pillow that works — and I tested them all! This thing
was clipped to my waist like a floatation device for about three months straight.

A Sophie Teething Giraffe

Just kidding — she already has seven. Do not buy this item under any
circumstance! But kids DO like it.

A play mat

Preferably one that plays annoying music. This will buy momma time to shower
and make toast for many months.

Food

Frozen lasagna, Starbucks cards, pizza delivery, anything. She will be hungry.

A gift certificate to a nice bra store, preferably with nursing bras

Those things are expensive, and her boobs will change on an almost daily basis.

Large maxi pads

Don’t ask.


-Tightrope Mama

Goodbyes

I was just in looking at Lo laying in bed and soundly sleeping and wishing that I could pick him up and hold him …..

I am always saying goodbye these days…I am waking up in the morning and having some special time with Lo before the world begins.  I get up to calls from the other room -  Momma, Momma, Momma literally.  I always wonder how long he is saying that before I actually wake up….I am thinking the first time! It's a left over skill from the early months.  I go in and he wants to read some books in his crib, he has his favorites from the night before and he gets all excited about continuing the adventure  from the night before.  Then he is ready to get out of the crib and it is a struggle to get his diaper changed as he wants to start exploring the upstairs as soon as possible.  The first destination is our bedroom, he runs in with excitement and yells daddy….. I let it happen every morning…maybe cruel for my husband but Lo is soo happy to be the first to say hello to his daddy.  Then we finally get to the bathroom - and attempt to brush his teeth - its getting better…..Then downstairs.

As he travels down the stair he notices his shadow on the way down as we get closer to the bottom.  He then stops and waves "hello".  Then the sprint begins….breakfast, showers, lunches, ironing,, coffee …. Then goodbye.

The drop off at the day care is getting better.  I am able to walk Lo to his chair at the table with his new friends and caregivers….and say goodbye.  He now looks at me through the corner of his eye as I walk out the door. 

Then I don't see him for 9 hours…..ok so he sleeps for three of those…so he really is not seeing us for 6 hours…a bit of a equation that makes me feel better…but I wonder often how it impacts him.

Then he gets home - which is one of the best parts of the day.  He is excited to be home and run around.  But also open for hugs and adventures with us.  He has this awesome skill these days of getting us to walk along side him in the house, he will grab my hand, and push the side of my leg to get up and then motion to walk forward and then the two of us walk along the "run way" on the main floor.

Then I am either working at night, or go to school or have the privilege of taking Lo to the "pool".  Yes he calls the bath the "pool" - hilarious. 

Then it is good night.

So as I was looking down at Lo tonight my heart ached - it ached as I miss him - I miss having hours to ourselves to play or whatever, to go for a walk, go to the park, go to our mom's group, to go on the "busssss" or see something new. 

Now I know the grass is always greener…I totally remember the tough days and being tired all of the time…but I was thinking the problems and struggles we have as mom's are exactly that - struggles and are intended for us as women - as mothers.  The struggles outside of motherhood just seem so meaningless when you have a little babes growing up in front of you and realizing that all of those struggles are part of growing up for both of you.  They are the most important journey that all of us are on…whether we love it or not.

I just wish I did not have to say goodbye so much…..it kills me.

-Gray Mama

[image source: etsy/sadieolive]

Peeing on a stick

I have only peed on a pregnancy test twice in my life and both times they were
positive. Yes, for those of you keeping track that means I’m pregnant again.

Peeing on a stick is nerve wracking no matter who you are. Whether you are 15 or
30 or 45, waiting those precious seconds for the answer is like watching your whole
life as you know it flash before your eyes.

Sometimes you desperately want a ‘yes’ and see a ‘no’. Sometimes the opposite is
true. Sometimes you are merely confirming what your instincts and cravings and
exhaustion have already told you.

W is 19 months now so he will be 2 years and 3 months when New arrives. That
is what I am going to call the impending family member, “New”, I was going to call
it “Change” but that doesn’t sounds as flattering.

Even though I have given birth, I am still nervous and it is still months away. Even
though I have nursed, I am super scared. But one thing I do know is that I LOVE W’s
laugh and his tight hugs, which also include rocking back and forth and sometimes
humming. I do know that I am good at sleep training and napping when they nap,
and lots of other things.

Mat leave does seem daunting, oddly. I feel like I just got back and made all these
speeches about the treatment of mothers and here I am, ‘running off’ again. I know,
it is my right and this is the most important job, but I was kind of used to making
myself feel important again.

And here are some positives: I am sleeping without guilt. I am eating chocolate
everyday. I have an excuse not to go to anything I don’t want too (sorry, too tired!).

The news is still new and sinking in – do you ever really get used to it? I don’t know.
Only my husband and I know, so it’s still a secret and so not quite real. I know the
realness is coming but for now I am hibernating and enjoying life as I know it.

-Tightrope Mama

‘First’ Babies

I don’t think I have ever been to a tropical beach without my husband. Usually I sit on
the beach and fret as I watch him jump and splash in the waves like a little kid. I beg
him to stop and worry he may drown.

My husband loves the ocean. My husband loves having fun of any kind, for that matter.
I am thinking of all our great beach vacations today while I am away for work, on a
beach. I am at a conference in a sunny location, which in my former life would have
been considered one of the few perks of my Bitchy Lion–infested work place. But now,
as I sit alone, exhausted, at the end of a long 48 hours, I miss my husband. And my
son. I am thinking about how lucky I am to have my family and how blessed we are to
be able to take vacations to places like where I am now. My son will likely inherit his
father’s love of swimming and wave-jumping. I hope he will not develop my paralyzing
fear of tropical birds. (A story for another time.)

I am also missing my husband because, while I am away this week, he is doing the
sweetest and most caring thing he has ever done for me.

He is laying my sweet, sweet elderly dog to sleep for the last time.

Long before I had a husband (or even a boyfriend, really), I had that dog. I got her in
February of my grade-nine year (which makes her 16, and me 30 this year).

I picked her and named her and poorly trained her and loved the shit out of her. She
was my baby; I adored her. I still do. She was a troubled girl from a rough home, but
that never stopped me from defending her every time she bit a neighbour’s dog or
snapped at people. Needless to say, she has been a handful of a pet right up until the
end. But she has also shown me love like only a dog can. She has absorbed the tears
of my teenage broken heart, she has accompanied me on first dates, she has sat with
me and my best friends for hours as we talked on my porch. But most importantly, she
became my husband’s dog too. She was our first family. The first time she met my
husband-to-be was when I was 20, and she was none too happy about it. She tried to
bite him — it was like she knew that this man would forever steal some affection from
her. Over time, though, they grew to be the best of friends. Often she would choose
him for a cuddle over me. He would give her late-night leg rubs and chastise me for not
giving her long enough walks. He accepted my rough-around-the-edges girl, and truly
she became his baby too.

Once W came, things changed. Obviously! She did her best to stay out of our way, but
it was clear to everyone that life had changed forever. My patience was thin, but her
sweet doe eyes never wavered. About a year ago, my husband and I knew her day was
coming. I’ve had dogs before; I know the signs. We started taking time to be with her
and reminding ourselves of all the fun she had given us over the years.

Last week, as we watched her struggle, we decided that my husband would make the
call and hold her for the last time while I was away. I hope you don’t think less of me
for not being there. I just couldn’t. Before I left for the airport, I gave her one last hug,
thanked her for a life of love, and told her I was so happy she had got to meet W. I was
very quick and quiet, and then I got in the cab for the airport.

I don’t think I could ever thank my husband enough for doing this, the hardest task of all
for a pet owner. He saw what would be one of the hardest days of my life and allowed it
to be a little less painful. This to me is a marriage; this to me is compassion. This to me
is the kind of man I hope W grows to be. A man who values fun and family vacations,
but also understands the unspoken ways to truly show love.

-Tightrope Mama

Froggie

Shopping with a 2 year old often equals grocery runs without milk and bras bought
at Costco (you have to break them in but they work). A recent trip to the garden
center was no different. It started out fun with W charming the staff but quickly
devolved in to looks of terror when he realized that all there was at this ‘store’ was
flowers and empty watering cans. So I left him in the cart digging in a tomato plant
(impulse buy) while I browsed perennials. The previously friendly garden center
lady seemed deeply perturbed by my parenting style. So, I quickly bought 100
dollars of flowers that are now drying up, unplanted on my lawn. Her look prompted
me to let W free from the cart. A few minutes (seconds?) later he was back with his
newfound buddy, “froggy” the garden ornament. I thought, “great froggy thanks
for buying me 3 minutes to make a decision”. Then I heard the distinct sound of
something I didn’t yet own (and didn’t want to own) breaking. Fucking Froggy.
Turns out he was a delicate frog made of some Parisian glass or something. Really
guys, a breakable on the ground.... Really!?
And of course heads turned as I solemnly put Froggy in the cart and that is how I
ended up with this footless gem in my garden.

-Tightrope Mama

Invisible Momma

When I went back to work, I was struggling through a number of things I was
attempting to manage but being invisible was not one I expected. I had been
away from work for a little over a year. Once I stepped into my new office I
was quickly back into the swing of the job once again. The meetings started up
again, the consultations continued and the tired jaw from talking all day kicked
into gear. The one thing that had changed was how people treated me.

Before my maternity leave I was the go to person, I was the one that helped to
solve difficult problems, that was chosen to represent the agency at numerous
events, facilitate training and co-ordinate events. Now I am not even asked,
when I speak in meetings I get glossy eyes, people question my decision making
as I work with children and people question my abilities now that I have my own
child.

This was definitely not something anything shared with me before returning to
work.

I have been back at work for over a year now, and this experience has not
changed. I am still trying to find my place in the work world while trying to figure
out how to be a working mom. If the later is not hard enough.

-Gray Mama

[image: retronaut]