365 Nights Page 8

  When I was growing up, if my dad knew where the toolbox in our house was located, it would have been a surprise to me . . . and to my mother. Mom was not a wilting flower—both by design (she came from hardy stock) and demand (if she didn’t know how to do it, fix it, or make it, it was not going to get done, fixed, or made). My mother would have made a killer executive or an electrical engineer . . . or as we’ve discovered of late, a budding artist. Instead she was one of a gazillion under-appreciated moms of her generation.

  Who knows how it was to be inside the skin of their day-to -day lives, but from this vantage point, now they appear to be reaping the joys of all their hard work. I sigh with envy. Their life, and their relationship, is now one big vacation—or so it seems. Sure, they still have laundry to do and bills to pay (at least my mom does), but they go on nice vacations, they winter in Florida, play lots of golf, go to yoga (my dad likes to work on his core), get to spend as much time together as they please, and are still married and affectionate with each other after forty-five years. I sure can’t wait for the day that Brad and I get there . . . on some days, though, I’m afraid we might die trying.

  Despite the award-winning example set by my mother, she had to tackle only two roles: Wife and Mother. At first, I thought I could handle it. I even tried to be a superhero: Wife! Mother! Star Employee!

  I aspired to Have It All. Like most of my girlfriends, I believed that I could deliver on every goal and fulfill every need, on time, to every single person who needed something from me. After all, we were fabulously successful, twenty-first-century-type gals.

  I remember exactly when I realized “Having It All” was really just “The Big Lie.” I had just recently returned to work after my maternity leave following the birth of my second child. I was racing home to meet the nanny. I was running late because I had misplaced my keys and I had to walk from the parking garage all the way back to my office, search my desk, the bathroom, the lobby and the elevator, and for kicks, our attractive male receptionist (just kidding). I was hiking back to the parking garage with my cell phone, and Brad on the line.

  “Hey! Where are you? I need you to bring me a key to the Blazer.”

  “Why, where are your keys?” he asked.

  “How the heck do I know? I have turned this sixty-story office tower on its head and I cannot for the life of me find my blasted keys. I’m going to be late meeting the nanny and she’s going to dock me like twenty-five bucks a minute if I’m late.”

  The whole time I was talking to him, I was huffing through the atrium of said sixty-story, state-of-the-art office tower for the third time to my car. It is about an eleven-minute walk door-to-door. I had now done this three times.

  “Maybe they dropped near my car?” I reasoned, trying desperately to think what I could have done with those stupid keys. “I’ll call you when I get to the car and let you know for sure.”

  The keys were, in fact, there, but not under the car. What I had missed my other three trips to the car was that they were in the ignition. I had left them there that morning, as I came screeching into the garage on two wheels, already late for some inane meeting for which I was woefully unprepared because my oldest had been up all night with some weirdo cough that sounded like fingernails on the proverbial chalkboard. And while I was convinced my daughter would die that very night, she was fine and I alas was holding my eyelids open with pickup sticks the next day.

  So not only were the keys in the ignition . . . but the car had been parked and running all day long! How was it possible that my car was still there and had enough gas to run all day? And why hadn’t I noticed the fact that the car was running when I got out of the car, and returned to it twice looking for the keys?

  That was when reality screamingly collided with fantasy.

  I realized that I could not now, nor ever, have it all. I was shocked and embarrassed that I couldn’t pull it off. But then I realized that it is virtually impossible for anybody to pull off—no matter how well educated, organized, prepared, and enthusiastic (when all else failed, I tried to play the enthusiasm card, but thinly veiled enthusiasm doesn’t mask sheer contempt, I’ve found). Most women my age had been schooled that if you attend a good college, work hard, coordinate the right internships, and put in the hours, you will be rewarded with a good career, above-average pay, and opportunity for advancement. No one ever coached me on what to do when career and home are at such cross-purposes that you don’t know whether you are coming or going. What do you do when you want it all—to be with your sweet baby and to continue on this career track for which you sacrificed so much before you got married and had said baby? Did I have to sacrifice one baby for another?

  My boss was the poster mom for working women. Donning her short bob, Brooks Brothers suits, and seriously professional demeanor, she nearly resembled a man, which was the idea back in the early nineties, wasn’t it? Logging sixty-hour weeks and juggling two kids and a husband, I was regaled with stories about how she put her kids to bed in their school clothes to cut down on prep time the next morning, or how she fed her kids frozen waffles on a stick in the car on the way to preschool. Before I had kids, I was mildly amused by her ingenuity. After I had kids, I was appalled. Surely, I could do better.

  But it turned out that as much as I hustled, planned, crashed, juggled, hoped, dreamed, and gritted my teeth, I could not do better . . . and be happy and sane and good at anything. I was shocked. I was a polite feminist and wasn’t this what the movement was all about—equal pay, equal opportunity, and most important, the guilt-free pleasure to pursue a career without judgment? I deserved and was entitled to the success that I had worked so hard and so long for. I was a vice president and officer in the company. There was a lot of blood, sweat, and tears invested in that business card I handed out at meetings. Not to work was unthinkable to me and certainly unthinkable to my husband, who was equally proud of my career achievements. And just as important, me not working was unthinkable to our budget. But at the same time, walking out the door every morning and leaving my Mary Poppins of a nanny to delight in my sweet babies every day . . . well, that was unthinkable, too.

  There were no training books or seminars for this. Believe me: I checked. My own wonderful mom was of no help either.

  Back in the sixties, she had quit her job when my brother and I were born, and that was the end of her brief foray in the working world. I know that there are plenty of moms, married and single, who don’t have the luxury of a Mary Poppins, and drop off their kids at some marginal day care every day because that is what circumstances demand. I realized that I sounded bratty and immature as I whined and fretted over my dilemma, especially to my friends who had to work no matter how bad it got. And I’m sure I annoyed those who had decided to stay home (and of whom I was secretly, or not so secretly, jealous). On occasion, I was outright mean to them.

  I hadn’t prepared myself for this challenge and mourned the loss of this dream of having it all. I bitterly fought against the fact that there was a big lie. I felt betrayed and angry and confused and tired. In fact, I had never been more tired. This revelation was a shock to the system and it took me a few weeks and lots of wine to absorb it. And while I was especially sensitive to those who passed judgment on my decision to work, no one judged me more than myself.

  Motherhood is a tricky business. And like all jobs, we each bring different skill sets to the table. So there are women out there who are better moms because they work. And there are moms who want to be at home, should be at home, and absolutely bask in the glow of all things maternal and sweet. And then there are the rest of us—struggling for the right answers, because what seems like the right answer one day only stands you on your head the next. And in the meantime, all these child-rearing experts are fighting over whether kids suffer in day care, suffer in the arms of a nanny, or suffer at home with a lazy mom.

  And in some ways, that’s what is underneath all this in-fighting among us girls. It’s hard to own up to such a major c
onfession—that despite us all wanting the same thing, we all want it in a different way. And since none of us really knows what we’re doing in the beginning anyway, we plagiarize each other or our mothers or our grandmothers—that’s human survival. We learn by doing and by watching others and by copying them. And no one, at least no one I know, likes to think they’re making the wrong decision. So in order for me to be right, you have to be wrong . . . right?

  But the bottom line for me was—did my kids suffer when I worked full-time? Absolutely not. But I will tell you what: I did. I suffered through work meetings wondering what Mary Poppins was feeding my baby for lunch. I avoided business travel as much as I could (certain that I would die in a fiery accident and Brad would have to explain to our daughter that Mom “chose” work over her). When I did have to travel, I resented every minute I was out of town, sure that my child would forget the sound of my voice. Client issues seemed so ridiculously banal that I had no tolerance for them. So at the end of a long, painfully exhausting day, soon after the incident of the running car in the garage, I decided to try a new approach. I ceded that I could not have it all, but that maybe, just maybe, with some careful planning and a lot of faith, I could have a bit more of what I wanted.

  Next came the hard work—figuring out what I wanted and how much I was willing to do and willing to sacrifice to get it. When I could answer that question, perhaps I could better master my destiny, and isn’t that what we all want? So I sat down with Brad, and we hammered out a strategy where I would cut back on my hours (and pay). We took a financial hit for the sake of everybody’s happiness (okay, mostly mine, but ever hear of the trickle-down theory?), and decided to forgo some necessities and luxuries that my full-time salary provided. I felt like a saner employee and a better mother. Was I a better wife? I’m not sure it even crossed my mind.

  Since this personal and professional epiphany, I am now on a mission to tell the younger women in my office about the Big Lie. I am encouraging them to think about what they want their lives to look like before they get married or have kids. I advise them not to settle for what they think they deserve or what they think they should do, but what they really want. In fact, I think there is a whole new business seminar category out there—“The Big Lie: How to Merge the Professional and the Personal with Grace and Style.” And I’ll tell you what else, I’ll be telling my daughter and the daughters of my friends the same story. I certainly don’t have all the answers and that’s really the point, isn’t it? No one does. There is no textbook scenario for this—after all, my idea of balance might not be the same as yours. But I do know this . . . A successful career? A functional family? A happy husband? Pick two, I will tell them. And we’ll work from there. After all, isn’t there a season for everything?

  At first, I picked a functional family and a successful career . . . that wasn’t working out that well, as you know, with me leaving cars running all day in the parking garage and all. Then I realized that to make my life work, my marriage had to work first, and that required from me even more work. So in a seismic shift, I aspired to have a happy husband and a functional family. Work, while it’s still very important to me, for now has taken a backseat. Currently, managing life outside the office is rarely Brad’s responsibility. Brad loves our children and our family and is quite helpful (although not handy) around the house. But he really never has to worry about managing the nanny, signing permission slips, or staying home when a child has to miss school. And if I’m scheduled to be in Rochester for a giant new-client meeting? Well, I’m the one calling a mother-in-law, a neighbor, or a best friend to make it work. In some ways, I was okay with that lopsided distribution of work. It helped me assuage my guilt as a working mom. And the hours I spent at work signing up for soccer, coordinating ballet carpool, and managing school paperwork? Well, my boss would be appalled and my husband would never do it.

  One of the most brutal parts of getting out of the fast lane at work, and taking a part-time role, was that I had to check my ego at the door. It was tough. After a career spent working my way to a killer corner office, I had to hire and train my replacement, and move into a position, and office, more suitable for a part-timer. I was no longer invited to high-level meetings . . . they were often late in the day or on days I wasn’t in the office. I was no longer the go-to person for a team of young executives that I had hired, trained, and mentored. I thought it would be so easy to give up control, give up a window office, give up a team of bright people, give up the fast track. After all, I was giving up all this power and control for a really good thing . . . the slow track. But dang, sometimes it really stank. Because working was something I knew how to do. Being at home, even part of the time? Well, that was new territory.

  Now I am in the trenches of family life, managing the minutiae of daily life—dishes, laundry, groceries, cleaning, cooking, putting stuff away, matching socks, sorting paperwork. Alternate that with putting on my Career Girl hat at the office and some days I feel positively dizzy about who I am supposed to be. While this is what I wanted, the details of running a family and working don’t always play to the strengths of Big Picture Girl. On occasion, this has resulted in me having a standoff with things like my dishwasher, to see if I could possibly go another day without unloading it. Yes, I know my dishwasher is an inanimate object, but sometimes I swear it’s laughing at me as I bend over to unload it for the umpteenth day in a row.

  So it’s a good thing that Brad has been pretty supportive. He’s good about not bringing work home with him and helping out when he’s home in the evenings. Since he’s employed by the World’s Greatest Company, he has a remarkable—and probably unusual—work/life balance. Up until five years ago, Brad worked with me at an ad agency. But what Brad saw in his new company was not only a great career advance for him, but a wonderful attitude that would allow him to participate in family life: They actually believe that wonderful old cliché—people work to live, not live to work. Brad heads out early—he’s at his desk typically by 7:30 A.M.—and he does travel more. But when he’s in town, he’s usually home by 6. He can take over with homework time, help with dinner, and get the kids bathed and in bed. Getting that help from him made it possible for me to have the energy to deliver on The Gift.

  Back in 2003, when I was working toward balance, Brad and I felt that we were losing out on achieving any sort of balance of responsibilities, and worse, battling through a never-ending power struggle. Flying home from California, where Brad had invited me along on a business trip, we were rehashing again some tired point about who was supposed to do what. There was nothing like sitting on a five-hour flight home stuffed in coach to get the bickering started: “If I have to remember and track every birthday in your family so that I can remind you to send a birthday card and gift, then why don’t I just send the darn gift myself?” I asked.

  “I told you I would take it off your plate—it’s my family, I’ll do it.”

  “Well, if I have to tee you up every time‚ you’re not really doing it, are you?” Back and forth, back and forth. Good times.

  We were turning our airline-induced indigestion into major-league ulcers as we haggled about whose responsibility buying stupid birthday gifts for his family was. It was definitely a sore point between us, as we had gotten in trouble before about late gifts, delinquent birthday wishes, and the lot. And then I had a brilliant—and I mean blindingly brilliant—idea: Muller Family job descriptions. Yes, friends, I have added to my résumé being COO of the Muller House, while Brad is the CEO. We trade CFO responsibilities back and forth, but they’ve landed in Brad’s court the last several years—which doesn’t speak necessarily to his strong financial acumen, as he is only barely more competent than I, and I’m an utter money loser (figuratively and literally).

  Stay-at-home mommyhood isn’t a given once babies arrive, and husbands aren’t always the main breadwinners. Nowadays you’re supposed to be in a marriage of equals—splitting responsibilities. However, does everything really
have to be equal? What if Brad and I decided to play to the strengths of each partner? No more tit for tat, no more: “I did this so now it’s your turn to step up” and on and on and on. Instead, you get a say on those issues in which you have a vested interest, firsthand knowledge, or some sort of expertise. Case in point: Brad has no say in a new washing machine, except for how much it costs as he has an interest in our budget. But since he has no firsthand knowledge of how a washing machine works, nor any expertise in doing laundry, I get the final decision.

  The job descriptions have served as a nice set of guardrails over the years—we don’t have to nag each other about stuff and endure all that back-and-forth about “have you done this?” or “have you done that?” There are five key categories of our responsibilities—children, house/family, finances, spouse, and social, plus a general overview. These roles are not a tool to lord over the other in a prickly and picky kind of way. I know what you want to ask, and no, there is no category for intimacy. We made this plan three years ago, for goodness’ sake—I wasn’t the highly evolved and acutely tuned-in spouse that I am today! Sadly, it still never occurred to me that I was not focused on being a better wife to whasisname, you know that tall guy with the nice green eyes? That came later.

  Reflecting back on this time when I was juggling everything and still dropping the ball on intimacy, I decided to ask Brad about it. He said that he didn’t think he was being neglected on the days that he wasn’t aiming for sex and it wasn’t on my radar. He was raised by a single mom who worked full time, his dad was never around after the divorce, and they struggled financially to make ends meet.

  “Since I didn’t have the experience of being raised in a two-parent family, no one modeled affectionate spousal behavior for me. When I got married, it was all gravy. I was thrilled to be with you, and glad I was no longer a bachelor who had to fend for himself in the kitchen. Life had never been better for me. After the kids, the trade-off of little or no sex seemed like a sacrifice, but I was willing to make it in order to keep my wife happy (and sane) and to maintain the semblance of the good life I had come to know and enjoy. I had a great job, a healthy boy and girl, a fine home, and good friends and neighbors. The lack of sex that we had could be ignored. After all—there is a price to pay for everything.”