The Working Mother's Dilemma

When Monisha quit her job to be with her children, she missed work, and now that shes rejoined work, she wonders if shes neglecting her kids. To give the little beings we brought to life my undivided attention and care, I gave up my career and stayed home. Post-partum, life took an increasingly fast pace with one baby, then two. Their conflicting whims, illnesses and sleep patterns left me exhausted. While I did a pretty good job of being a stay-at-home-mom, at least, thats what my children say, staying home didnt come easy at all. Privately, quietly, I rebelled against my job definition of being a "mom" or a "housewife". Now that my babies have grown up a little and have busy lives of their own, I ended my four-year sabbatical and got a job. For the twelve working years before my children, life was about battling deadlines and meeting impossible targets. Once I used to carry an organizer, credit cards, a pen and a hairbrush. Neat! My post baby bag overflows with diapers, comic books, chocolates, water bottles, baby wipes, t-shirts. Its time now to fit both lives in one bag. I sent in my report for the month yesterday. I thought I could take the weekend off and teach one baby numbers, and the other one, colours. However, they have plans of their own. My daughters is off to meet a friend, and my son is noisily dragging around his red plastic chair, too engrossed to want to come rushing to mommy. Well, I wanted to work, I wanted my children to be independent. Why, then, do I feel like crying? Twelve years of hard work, commitment and rising paychecks justified my existence. Then came four years of justifying my existence by the linguistic maturity of my daughter, expressing herself fluently (and vociferously) in three languages before she turned three, by the physical development of my baby who chased behind his sister at nine months. For four years, I was on a fast track, coaxing fussy eaters to eat one more spoonful, wanting them asleep when awake and waking them when asleep, compulsively picking up toys, crayons, sweet wrappers and bits of fossilized dinner from under the table, picking one up from the nursery and teaching the other to sit still in a car. Before I quit work I met clients, colleagues and friends. After babies, all I met were other mothers; some better-qualified and better home adjusted. We griped about having no time for do much beyond our children, we lacked regular adult conversations. Now that Ive rejoined work, I still meet moms, but my gripe is about neglecting the children (who dont want us around too much anyway!) I met an ex-colleague a few days ago. It felt good to talk about my new job rather than go on about how children keep me so busy that I dont have time for anything else. It felt good to be seen in something other than ragged jeans and a worn out t-shirt as I hurry between chores. Looks like I am damned if I do, and damned if I dont. And damned for trying to do both!

When Monisha quit her job to be with her children, she missed work, and now that she's rejoined work, she wonders if she's neglecting her kids.

To give the little beings we brought to life my undivided attention and care, I gave up my career and stayed home. Post-partum, life took an increasingly fast pace with one baby, then two. Their conflicting whims, illnesses and sleep patterns left me exhausted. While I did a pretty good job of being a stay-at-home-mom, at least, that's what my children say, staying home didn't come easy at all. Privately, quietly, I rebelled against my job definition of being a "mom" or a "housewife". Now that my babies have grown up a little and have busy lives of their own, I ended my four-year sabbatical and got a job. For the twelve working years before my children, life was about battling deadlines and meeting impossible targets. Once I used to carry an organizer, credit cards, a pen and a hairbrush. Neat! My post baby bag overflows with diapers, comic books, chocolates, water bottles, baby wipes, t-shirts. Its time now to fit both lives in one bag. I sent in my report for the month yesterday. I thought I could take the weekend off and teach one baby numbers, and the other one, colours. However, they have plans of their own. My daughters is off to meet a friend, and my son is noisily dragging around his red plastic chair, too engrossed to want to come rushing to mommy. Well, I wanted to work, I wanted my children to be independent. Why, then, do I feel like crying? Twelve years of hard work, commitment and rising paychecks justified my existence. Then came four years of justifying my existence by the linguistic maturity of my daughter, expressing herself fluently (and vociferously) in three languages before she turned three, by the physical development of my baby who chased behind his sister at nine months. For four years, I was on a fast track, coaxing fussy eaters to eat one more spoonful, wanting them asleep when awake and waking them when asleep, compulsively picking up toys, crayons, sweet wrappers and bits of fossilized dinner from under the table, picking one up from the nursery and teaching the other to sit still in a car. Before I quit work I met clients, colleagues and friends. After babies, all I met were other mothers; some better-qualified and better home adjusted. We griped about having no time for do much beyond our children, we lacked regular adult conversations. Now that I've rejoined work, I still meet moms, but my gripe is about neglecting the children (who don't want us around too much anyway!) I met an ex-colleague a few days ago. It felt good to talk about my new job rather than go on about how children keep me so busy that I don't have time for anything else. It felt good to be seen in something other than ragged jeans and a worn out t-shirt as I hurry between chores. Looks like I am damned if I do, and damned if I don't. And damned for trying to do both!