Working My Way Back to Work

So I have a start date to go back to work. March 1st. Quinn will be a little over 6 months old. I have so much ambivalence about this, but somewhere in my gut I think this is right for me. I have learned, since embarking on this process of figuring out my new work life, that this is one of those controversial parenting subjects. It’s right up there with breastfeeding and sleep. I mention that for two reasons. One, it causes me more anxiety as I figure it all out. And two, I understand that this is totally personal and my feelings on it apply ONLY to me.

It seems the way I make the big decisions in my life have nothing to do with logic. I am not a terribly analytic person. Usually if a decision is wrong, it feels wrong, like bodily wrong. I usually stay in good touch with my body, my sense, and wait for something to feel right. And sometimes it takes a long time for something to feel right, and sometimes things that feel wrong are right and vice versa. So, it doesn’t always work for me, but it’s a system that I’ve grown accustomed too.

Before I had Quinn, I used to happily spout that I would be a better parent through having work in my life because I would be more balanced and therefore give him a more satisfied contented version of me to hang with when around. You know, the take care of yourself in order to take care of others mantra. Now that I have met Quinn, I am not sure that I can use that as an excuse. I don’t know that being back at work will make me a better parent. Plus, I will probably come home from a work day pretty tired, and maybe not the best me I can be. I don’t know that spending less time with me will be better for him. So why go back?

It all boils down to a need to feel like I have a purpose in life in addition to parenting. I feel like this last year and a half, my entire being has been given over to trying to get pregnant, being pregnant, losing the pregnancy, trying to get pregnant again, high-risk pregnancy and now parenting. There is a part of me that wants to stake a claim that all of the “must be a parent” energy isn’t the only part of who I am. Had I worked right up until my due date, I might feel differently. But at this point, it will be a full year out of work by the time I go back and sometimes I wonder what happened to the other me, who was good for more than the baby effort.

There is also something else. Again, this is totally personal. But it might be important for me to work to keep up with the version of me I imagined I’d be as a younger woman. I can’t help it; I am a product of a liberal arts education, where men and woman were totally equal. It’s not to say that the husband and I are unequal, it’s just that I envisioned a life for myself that wondered less traditional paths. I figured for a totally egalitarian relationship in every way. And, much to my surprise, I find myself in a position where the husband pays the big bills (I can’t help it if in our society the job title, “social worker” earns far less money than the job title “attorney”), and I do the bulk of taking care of Quinn (mostly because I have the boobs, but also because husband is out bringing home bacon—don’t misunderstand, he is very hands on and takes care of Q as much as possible considering he does not have breasts.) I am mostly okay with this surprise, but there is a part of me that feels a need to fight entirely becoming my parents. Again, I don't mean to suggest that taking care of a baby is any less important a job than a bacon job. In fact, I am sure it is more real/meaningful in the most important ways. It's just that I start to freak out when I am covered in spit-up in my pajamas and the husband comes in with his suit and breifcase and someone says "honey."

I also get incredible satisfaction out of the work I do. It’s a place where I feel successful, valuable and responsible in an adult way--a professional way. It’s not that I don’t feel successful with Quinn, but let’s face it; it’s a bit overwhelming, and frankly, sometimes boring. No one is saying “great job” when I am rinsing spit-up out of my hair. When some colleagues asked me if I was coming back, I heard myself say, “definitely.” That decisiveness tells me something. It's informatiton for me (given how I make decisions).

So, on March 1st, at least for 20 hours a week, I will say good-bye to seeing my guy during the day. And here, my friends, is the rub. No matter how I decide this, how much I do actually analyze this, no matter how much I feel like this is the right decision for me and okay for him, it just doesn’t change that I get less time with the boy. The little guy seems like he grows napping, how can I leave him for 8 hours at a stretch??? But I will. On Mach 1st I will.