Women’s Lib didn’t liberate the women I know. Can women have it all and maintain their sanity? I think not. What were my sisters thinking back in the 1960s? Did they think burning their bras in protest was going to truly affect change or were they just acting out? Didn’t they realize how utterly exhausted their daughters and granddaughters would be just trying to live up to the lofty goals they advocated so hard to achieve?
Growing up steeped in the afterglow of all that forward movement, I believed a female could be anything she wanted to be. My career-minded father coached me as I grew up. He encouraged me to cultivate a firm handshake; one that would make a powerful first impression. No limp wrist allowed. I was going to conquer the world or at least remind everyone I met that I could hold my own in an arm wrestling match.
A circuitous path to success led to a sales job that propelled me up the corporate ladder in a company that promoted on merit. Quickly learning to survive in the male dominated construction industry was tough but I was ultimately promoted to national accounts manager for this dynamic playground safety surface company.
I had it all or so I thought: successful career, solid marriage and the freedom that comes from two incomes. There was just something missing. A new opportunity beckoned and I donned a new hat: “Working Mother.”
Oh, I still thought I could have it all. Continuing to crisscross the country during an obscenely healthy pregnancy, I was convinced an eight pound wiggling mass of humanity couldn’t make that much of a difference. The night before I checked into the hospital for a scheduled caesarian section, my to-do list was organized and I was eager to take the next step. Nothing was going to sidetrack my well-laid plans.
With a shiny new baby in one arm, I worked the phone with the other from the temporary cocoon of the maternity ward. Playground projects scheduled all over the United States didn’t present a problem; I had a network of support that would keep every detail in check.
Arriving home, I tucked my son into his crib and said to myself: “This isn’t so hard.” Phones ringing in a home office at the other end of the hall were a pleasant reminder that I was in still in control.
Fast forward four days when hormones and milk collided. What was I thinking? My precious baby boy wailed for sustenance and my chest was the only 24-hour diner in town. The veneer started to crack. I felt betrayed by an entire generation of women. Why didn’t someone tell me how hard it would be? Corporate ladder? Glass ceiling? I just wanted to sit and inhale the intoxicating aroma wafting up from the swaddled bundle I cradled. The carefully laundered baby blankets sopped up my tears those first few hazy weeks.
As I struggled to maintain my professionalism and dignity while juggling poopie diapers and breast pumps, Joseph was spending his days coming up with fresh ways to enchant me. When he was about 15 months old, the E.P.T. test told no lies. The biological clock was in overdrive and a second son was born 26 months after the first. That was when I surrendered and faced a uniquely female crossroads. I dove headlong into the loud, messy but wonderfully sweet world of full-time motherhood. A daughter came along to add icing to the family cake in 1999.
Trading the corporate ladder for a step stool to help my children reach the potty was a conscious decision and one I made with the support of my husband. I was one of the lucky ones. There are no easy answers; only hard choices to make. We can answer only for ourselves and our individual situations. This debate continues to be waged among working mothers and their stay-at-home counterparts.
Women still want to have it all, but maybe we don’t quite know what that means. It is a fleeting vision at best. The background noise of sibling rivalry and the hum of the dryer keep me grounded in a mundane but extraordinary life. However, there is always the siren song of that pesky woman waving a flaming undergarment around. The choice to feed my knowledge-hungry brain and being present for my family is a daily battle. Guilt whispers not so sweet nothings in my ear and I just want to take a nap.
Now that I’m back in school full-time and heading down a different career path, I feel I’m qualified to answer the original blog question with a resounding YES. Granted, this is just my opinion but we’re [women] tired. Bone tired. How in the world can a family be nurtured and sustained without someone to keep the laundry going? Even in the most equitable of marriages and partnerships, there is still a disproportionate amount of responsibility that falls on the shoulders of the female mate.
If I look back at a career gone fallow, I’m at peace with the tidbits of self-discovery I’ve managed to snatch while pulling fish sticks out of the oven. I’m OK knowing my greatest legacy will be that I successfully potty trained three children. I can say I celebrated when they scrawled their name for the first time and when they learned to read. I was there to witness those moments of profound discovery. My children are growing old enough to be independent and I sense there is still time for me to conquer the world. I have no regret that I invested a season in nurturing the gift of family. Maybe the next generation will find the balance I crave.
Growing up steeped in the afterglow of all that forward movement, I believed a female could be anything she wanted to be. My career-minded father coached me as I grew up. He encouraged me to cultivate a firm handshake; one that would make a powerful first impression. No limp wrist allowed. I was going to conquer the world or at least remind everyone I met that I could hold my own in an arm wrestling match.
A circuitous path to success led to a sales job that propelled me up the corporate ladder in a company that promoted on merit. Quickly learning to survive in the male dominated construction industry was tough but I was ultimately promoted to national accounts manager for this dynamic playground safety surface company.
I had it all or so I thought: successful career, solid marriage and the freedom that comes from two incomes. There was just something missing. A new opportunity beckoned and I donned a new hat: “Working Mother.”
Oh, I still thought I could have it all. Continuing to crisscross the country during an obscenely healthy pregnancy, I was convinced an eight pound wiggling mass of humanity couldn’t make that much of a difference. The night before I checked into the hospital for a scheduled caesarian section, my to-do list was organized and I was eager to take the next step. Nothing was going to sidetrack my well-laid plans.
With a shiny new baby in one arm, I worked the phone with the other from the temporary cocoon of the maternity ward. Playground projects scheduled all over the United States didn’t present a problem; I had a network of support that would keep every detail in check.
Arriving home, I tucked my son into his crib and said to myself: “This isn’t so hard.” Phones ringing in a home office at the other end of the hall were a pleasant reminder that I was in still in control.
Fast forward four days when hormones and milk collided. What was I thinking? My precious baby boy wailed for sustenance and my chest was the only 24-hour diner in town. The veneer started to crack. I felt betrayed by an entire generation of women. Why didn’t someone tell me how hard it would be? Corporate ladder? Glass ceiling? I just wanted to sit and inhale the intoxicating aroma wafting up from the swaddled bundle I cradled. The carefully laundered baby blankets sopped up my tears those first few hazy weeks.
As I struggled to maintain my professionalism and dignity while juggling poopie diapers and breast pumps, Joseph was spending his days coming up with fresh ways to enchant me. When he was about 15 months old, the E.P.T. test told no lies. The biological clock was in overdrive and a second son was born 26 months after the first. That was when I surrendered and faced a uniquely female crossroads. I dove headlong into the loud, messy but wonderfully sweet world of full-time motherhood. A daughter came along to add icing to the family cake in 1999.
Trading the corporate ladder for a step stool to help my children reach the potty was a conscious decision and one I made with the support of my husband. I was one of the lucky ones. There are no easy answers; only hard choices to make. We can answer only for ourselves and our individual situations. This debate continues to be waged among working mothers and their stay-at-home counterparts.
Women still want to have it all, but maybe we don’t quite know what that means. It is a fleeting vision at best. The background noise of sibling rivalry and the hum of the dryer keep me grounded in a mundane but extraordinary life. However, there is always the siren song of that pesky woman waving a flaming undergarment around. The choice to feed my knowledge-hungry brain and being present for my family is a daily battle. Guilt whispers not so sweet nothings in my ear and I just want to take a nap.
Now that I’m back in school full-time and heading down a different career path, I feel I’m qualified to answer the original blog question with a resounding YES. Granted, this is just my opinion but we’re [women] tired. Bone tired. How in the world can a family be nurtured and sustained without someone to keep the laundry going? Even in the most equitable of marriages and partnerships, there is still a disproportionate amount of responsibility that falls on the shoulders of the female mate.
If I look back at a career gone fallow, I’m at peace with the tidbits of self-discovery I’ve managed to snatch while pulling fish sticks out of the oven. I’m OK knowing my greatest legacy will be that I successfully potty trained three children. I can say I celebrated when they scrawled their name for the first time and when they learned to read. I was there to witness those moments of profound discovery. My children are growing old enough to be independent and I sense there is still time for me to conquer the world. I have no regret that I invested a season in nurturing the gift of family. Maybe the next generation will find the balance I crave.
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