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I have a new article on Parent.Co comparing how long mothers really get for maternity leave, compared to where they are in their physical recovery and baby’s development. 

It was a really fun project to work on and I’m excited about how it turned out. Check it out here!

Do I go three months without posting articles I have written for other websites? Why, yes. Yes, I do.

For your reading pleasure:

“It’s Time to Dress Like a Woman,” Mamalode, February 2017.

“This Black History Month, Let’s Discuss the Pay Gap for Women of Color,” Parent.Co, February 2017.

“16 Acts of Self-Care that can Help Change the World,” Parent.Co, February 2017.

“What is the Value of an Education to a Stay at Home Mom?” Parent.Co, February 2017.

“The Best Way to ‘Go Green?’ Go outside,” Parent.Co, February 2017.

“Why I’m Raising My Sons to be Feminists,” Parent.Co, January 2017.

“Paid Family Leave Would Actually Make Businesses Stronger,” Parent.Co, January 2017.

“6 Resolutions We Hope Our Elected Officials Make This Year,” January 2017.

“Is Part-Time Employment the Ideal Situation for Working Parents?” Parent.Co, January 2017.

“A Lack of Paid Sick Leave in the U.S. Is a Public Health Concern,” Parent.Co, January 2017.

“You Spend a Ton of Money on Child Care, So Why Are Caregivers so Poorly Paid?” Parent.Co, January 2017.

“If You’ve been to One Family Holiday Party, You’ve been to them All.”

“The Crock-Pot and the Promise of Having it all,” Parent.Co, December 2016.

“7 Books that Teach Young Children about Racial and Social Justice,” Parent.Co, December 2016.

“What I tell My Kids about Working Moms,”Parent.Co, December 2016.

“Pumping at Work: Rights, Tips, and Tricks,” Parent.Co, December 2016.

“How Much is a Stay-at-Home Mom Really Worth?,” Parent.Co, November 2016.

“Paternity Leave is Essential to Building Healthy Families,” Parent.Co, November 2016.

My husband told me if I wanted to become a writer, I needed to set aside time every day to write and develop my voice. At least that’s what his favorite sports blogger had suggested.

I don’t do that. And I don’t particularly want to do it tonight. Instead, I want to go back upstairs, lounge on my couch, watch TV and knit a hat that I will finish just in time for next winter.

I don’t want to find my voice. I want to rest my voice, to go the next hour without saying a single word to anyone. I don’t want to say,

“Pull up your pants.”
“No, you can’t pee on the floor.”
“Just try the spinach.”
“Should we count them? 1, 2, 3, 4…”
“Once upon a time…”

I just want a bit of silence. Or rather, the mind-numbing noise that comes out of a cable network dramedy that can drown out any of the voices bouncing around my head for an hour.

Those are the voices I want to ignore. The ones saying things like,

“You really should have done more today.”
“Why aren’t you folding the laundry?”
“Should you really be eating that ice cream? Don’t you know sugar is bad for you?”
“Why did you let the kids have so much sugar today?”
“And watch so much TV?”
“Why aren’t you writing? You can’t just say, ‘I want to become a writer’ without actually writing.”

You become a mother the moment you hear your child’s voice. Truthfully, probably before that – the moment you hear a heart beating and see it flashing on a screen, or the moment you think to yourself, “This is real.” But that first loud complaint, their protest against the light, and the cold, and the freedom is what transforms us.

The subsequent ones are not as darling. The ones that wake you in the middle of the night, the ones that come after hours of trying to figure out anything that could possibly be causing them discomfort, the ones that demand a different meal for dinner – those have lost their charm. They leave you bedraggled, thinking please just five minutes peace.

In the years since my children were born, I have watched them find their voices to both my delight and dismay. Their demands for food and comfort are much louder and specific than a newborn’s cry, but less heartbreakingly urgent. They tell me I am the worstest mama in the world. They tell me I am the bestest mama in the world. They ask me unanswerable questions, or at least questions that would require a PhD in astrophysics to answer. They mispronounce words and I don’t dare to correct them, because how long will they say,

“Mama, I’m tiwed and want to go to fweep.”

And in those years, I have had to find my own voice as well. I’ve had to break out of my shell and introduce myself to mothers at playgrounds. I’ve had to speak up when a doctor dismisses my concerns. I’ve had to advocate, cheer, console, and correct every day for the past four years.

I write so I don’t forget what these years are like. I write in case maybe, possibly someone out there feels the same way I do. I write to exist in a world where stay-at-home mothers often fade into the background. I write because I have changed so much since becoming a mother that sometimes I feel like I no longer know who I am.

And so I write to find my voice.

 

The world is melting. 

I can hear it outside my window. First, a few drops dripped down optimistically. Now there is a steady deluge pouring through my gutters. It sounds as if it were raining, but I know it is only my roof. Soon, the snow covered hill my small town is built on will flow freely, flooding the valley below. 

I hear the crows calling a little more clearly today. They give me hope that their gentler cousins will soon return to our yard. I long to see my children again covered in grass stains, storming through the fields. I want them to smell the first yellow dandelion that struggled out of the frozen ground, smiling with her bright face as if to say, “I persisted.”

It has been a long and cold winter in my corner of the country. “Record Cold Temperatures” and “Unprecedented Snowfall” have been the headlines for so many days that I no longer bother with the forecast. Cold. Snowy. I know. 

This winter has given us as many days in single temperatures than not. And on the many days when the cold air has stubbornly stayed in the negatives, I struggle to find anything positive. Cozy cups of cocoa have started to burn my threat, and wool blankets scratch my skin. Candles dance as if to mock me, reminding me of a time when light came from the sky. 

I hear the world melting, and I long to stretch my bones again. But I remind myself it is only February, and spring is yet a long ways off. It will snow, again and again. And I will start to believe that the time of joy-filled change will never return. 

But there is movement now. The earth has begun to shove off its command that all must be cold, white, and silent. I see the cracks across the lake, and I know. 

Springtime is coming. 

Dear Donald Trump,

Thank you. You’ve made me more proud to be an American now than I ever have been before.

I haven’t always been particularly patriotic. Don’t get me wrong – I am thankful for the men and women who have fought for our freedom, and I have always enjoyed a good hot dog and fireworks show on the Fourth. But after the sparks fizzle out, I tend to fall back into a causal “we’re all one global family and no country is inherently better than the other” mindset.

But now, you’ve made me see that I was wrong.

You and I probably differ on a lot of major issues. I have never sexually assaulted anyone, much less bragged about it on tape. I have read more Pulitzer Prize winning journalists than I publicly decried for daring to challenge me, and I am certain that I have never mocked any for having a disability. I understand that climate change is real, value public education, and do not admire anyone who has committed war crimes in Syria. I don’t call people of color rapists, and I respect women. I generally believe in helping people less fortunate than me, rather than using positions of power for my own financial gain.

I also wish to avoid a nuclear war.

Plus, you can see my tax returns if you want to. They’re pretty small – I am a freelance writer after all – but nevertheless I am proud to contribute to our roads, schools, and uniformed services.

But that’s where we differ. Let’s talk about where we agree.

Like you, I’m pretty damn proud to be an American. And you’ve made me that way.

You see, the day after you won the election, I started hearing a rumble move from corner to corner of this country. There were some tears, of course. I, for one, couldn’t believe we had elected a man who I would be scared to be in a room alone with, and even more scared that his history of sexual assault was among the least of my concerns.

But after eyes were dried (or drained), we started talking. About our country, the one to whom we had pledged allegiance to in classrooms where we learned about an America built by immigrants. This country, where we had decided that every single person had equal rights, regardless of their race, sex or creed. About our land, which we unfairly stole but have grown so deeply concerned about, from its snowcapped peaks to simple backyard creeks. About our home, which we have decided is built on tolerance, freedom, equality, and opportunity.

And democracy.

Let’s talk about democracy for a minute. It’s the kind of country our forefathers decided was best – a system where everyone had a voice. Now, it took many years for everyone’s voices to be heard, let’s not forget that. And still we have people trying to stifle those voices with subversive tactics like gerrymandering and restrictive voting laws. It’s what we would call a work in progress.

Nevertheless, I’m pretty proud of it.

Because in a democracy, I can vote against you. I have, and I will proudly do it again. In a democracy, I can call my Senators and Congressperson and voice my disgust at your repeated cabinet appointments that fly in the face of American values. I can march in the streets, my children alongside me, and remind you that this is a country where we stand up for one another.

That is the rumble I started to hear after you were elected.

“We can’t stand for this.”
“I will register people to vote next election.”
“I will give a dollar to human rights organizations every minute a Neo-Nazi marches in my street.”
“I should run for office.”
“Are you going to that meeting next week about what we should do next?”
“I’m marching tomorrow.”
“I stored my congressperson’s number in my phone.”
“I’m going to campaign for my Senator.”
“This is not okay.”
“I will stand up for my neighbors, no matter what.”

You reminded me that we are, truly, a great country. That despite our missteps along the way, we have decided to make justice, equality, freedom, and tolerance our guiding values. And when someone tries to pull us away from those, we will take up the reins and struggle until we have moved our country back to where it should be.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s started already. Senators and Congress people, of both parties, report that their offices are flooded with calls. Millions of men and women are taking to the street this week in peaceful protest. Meetings are being held in libraries, bars, and basements coordinating how we will take our country back. I am proud to be part that America.

This is my country. It’s already pretty great. It’s about to get better, in spite of you.

I suppose we have you to thank for that.

Sincerely,

A Citizen

My son is flying a pretend airplane, and I am riding along as a passenger. He calls back to me,

“Okay, Mama. Where do you want to go next?”

Tahiti, I tell him. Or Bermuda. The Bahamas, perhaps, or Hawaii. Somewhere warm and sunny, where I can lay on the sand and burn my pale Irish skin to a crisp. Somewhere I can dip my toes in warm water.

Somewhere far, far away from here.

We are in the deepest drifts of winter at the moment. The mercury struggles to rise into double digits most days, and ice forms along the inside of my windows. The sun stretches, rolls over, and falls back asleep without ever reaching the top of the sky. Wool sweaters, which seemed cozy and snug a month ago, are now itchy and smothering.

The world is a mind and finger numbing cold.

I feel guilty, these days that we are cooped up inside with each other day after day, telling myself that I should be relishing these moments. We should read stories, build forts, sip hot chocolate and fill up coloring book after coloring book. Instead I listen to the sound of the heater humming and pretend it is the ocean waves pulling me to paradise.

This is the part of the essay where I should talk about how I come to my senses and realize there is no place I would rather be. I should say that being at home with my children, day after day, is paradise.

But there are places I would rather be – at the playground, on a warm summer day, in college, going to one of those parties I never went to because I was always on the phone with a long-distance boyfriend, in the future, when I am an empty nester and travelling to Argentina, Ireland and Australia, in a coffee shop, where I can finally find some peace and quiet to get some work done.

Right now, I am in none of those places. I am where I need to be, where others need me to be.

One day, I will travel back here in my daydreams. I will wish for cozy snowy afternoons, and the sound of my toddler yelling, “How many more minutes until naptime is over?” (As many minutes as it takes me to finish this essay.)

A house full of cabin fevered toddlers might not always be my idea of paradise. But I will try to leave behind some good memories for the return trip.

My second son was born during the summer solstice. He first opened his eyes in a world with lasting days and vanishing nights and has believed that is how it should be ever since. He fights sleep just as hard as we fight to stay awake the mornings after long nights convincing him to close his eyes. Rarely does more than a day or two go by without a middle of the night call for assistance. 

I go to him, rocking his long body which now having grown for two and a half years cannot snuggle on my lap as easily as it once did. He tosses and turns, unable to get comfortable, but fearing the solitude of his own bed. All the methods have failed us – coaching, crying, co-sleeping have each resulted in a child who wants thad be rocked, and rocked, and rocked to sleep. 

After his restless nights, he wakes early. Before the sun has pushed back the night he has climbed into our bed, pulling back the covers and yelling, “it’s morning!” in his exhaustingly sweet voice. 

I walk through the night, praying for sleep, and my husband rises early with the babe, praying for night to come again quickly. 

He won’t always need me like he does now. It is the curse of parenthood – the days that you know them the least, they ask so much from you. And when you begin to understand, they start to pull away. 

There will be days, years from now, when I hope he wakes me in the middle of the night. When a monster chases him and he cannot run, I hope I hear his call. When the classmate he likes tells him the feeling is not mutual, when his designated driver cracks open a can, or when the darkness of the night threatens to crush his soul, I pray he calls to me. And I will tell him no matter how dark the night, the sun has never refused to rise. 

My son was born for the daylight. But for now, I do wish he’d sleep. 

Merry Christmas! Are you getting together with your own wonderfully weird family this week? If so, be sure to check out my latest article on Mamalode!

But nevertheless, gravity and the desire to eat turkey beside the person who slept in the top bunk growing up keeps pulling us back together.
Families are all alike in the best and worse ways—their ability to share joy and inflict pain is unparalleled. They grow, divide, conquer, and multiply. They are our own.

“If you’ve been to one holiday family party, you’ve been to them all.” On Mamalode. Check it out, and happy holidays!

When I was a girl, my favorite doll was Molly, of American Girl fame. She lived during 1940s, sharing stories of life growing up while her father served as a doctor overseas. I was fascinated with the second World War from them on – not so much the battles and movements of troops – but with my (perhaps too romanticized) view of life on the home front. The idea that everyone fought for the same goal, that they strived and worked together, captivated me.

Now we live in a time when we seem to be hung in a perpetual mid-state between war and peace, never certain about the direction the world is hurtling to. And yet there is no collective will to achieve the same goal – we fight amongst ourselves more than ever. The next year will bring more uncertainty than any in my lifetime has before, a fate I would perhaps been willing to ignore before becoming a parent. But now as I walk with my children in to a new future, I hold them close, and pray for peace on earth.

It has become a glib saying over the years, scribbled in a glittered pen across Christmas cards and tossed in the trash a week later. December, in the years since I have become a parent, has seem to have a dark shadow hanging over it as we enter the holidays – Sandy Hook, terrorist attacks in Paris and Berlin, in churches and mosques all around the world, compounded by the every day pain of loss and loneliness so much of us experience. It makes me feel disingenuous, singing songs of peace and joy when a bedraggled world shows us anything but. I wonder if families hanging doves on their Christmas trees and lighting candles in their windows in the midst of world wars felt as if they were lying to themselves, or if their actions were a desperate prayer.

Because, I suppose, that is all that Christmas is.

It is a story of hope born during the years of a despot. It is a story of hope persecuted and reviled. A story of peace on earth, a peace delegated to us to ensure.

For most of the Christmas season, I find myself humming David Bowie and Bing Crosby’s “Peace on Earth.” It wasn’t until this morning I realized that the lyrics were not, in fact, “Peace on earth, Goodwill towards men,” but rather, “Peace on earth, can it be?”

Can it be?

I suppose we must all decide how we want to answer that question this year.

 

The request was simple, but it was enough to send me into an existential crisis.

“Can you type up a quick bio? We want to add you to the staff page on our website,” the e-mail from my coworker read.

I had just begun to dip my toes into the workforce after two years of staying at home. I was barely ankle deep, just working from home for my former employer, a few hours a day on nights where my kids mercifully went to sleep at a reasonable hour. I hadn’t really even thought of myself as “working,” rather just making a little money with a side gig. It shouldn’t take too long to type a paragraph about myself, I thought.

I took a crack at it.

“Jackie is a stay at home mom to two toddler boys. Her specialties include applying sunscreen to moving objects and taking showers while simultaneously answering pressing questions such as, “why do I have a nose?” Her hobbies include discussing politics on Facebook while rocking her two year old to sleep, who yes, still needs to be rocked to sleep. Jackie’s most recent accomplishment is drying herbs in the microwave because she saw it on Pinterest and it looked intriguing, a task which took three hours and saved 35 cents.”

Accurate, but not professional. I sighed. I didn’t know how to begin the paragraph: “Jackie is…” I wasn’t exactly sure what I was anymore. For two years, I had done virtually nothing but be a mom every moment of every day.

I had left my job after the birth of my second son. He was a month premature, and my oldest had recently been diagnosed with multiple food allergies. The thought of sending them both to a daycare that would eat up the vast majority of my paycheck just didn’t compute. This new path had taken some getting used to, as I had always loved my work and missed having an identity outside of my children. But eventually the arrangement grew on me, and I began to appreciate the control over our lives staying at home gave me.

Second attempt:

“Jackie has worked in the field of policy for the past five years, if you ignore the fact she has stayed at -home for the last two of those. She graduated with advanced degrees in fields that most people would consider fairly useless, but were occasionally helpful on trivia night at the local bar. Her areas of specialty include economic insecurity, food insecurity, and insecurity in general about being a stay at home mom.”

When my former boss asked if I could work on a project for them, I jumped at the chance. It felt good to be working again, although it added a degree of busy-ness to our lives. I liked the idea that I could answer the question of “do you work?” with a yes, even though I wasn’t sure that was fair to say when I was only at my desk a couple hours each night. There were other rewards as well, however.

“Mom! Can I have honey nut cheerios?” my oldest asked as I started to head downstairs to work on my computer. I thought about it. He hadn’t had snack after his naptime, but it was also getting close to dinner.

“I dunno, kid. Ask your dad. I’m off duty,” I responded and quickly shut the door behind me. No negotiating, diapers, or mopping up gallons of water that were “accidentally” splashed out of the bathtub tonight.

Third attempt:

“Jackie is a freelance writer, and has been published online multiple times, much to the surprise of people close to her, which she is not sure if that is a compliment or not. She writes about a variety of topics, all of which seem to center around parenting, mothering, being a mom, and raising children. Her most recent publications actually include sites other than her Facebook wall.”

In one sense, I had been working a bit for the past year, freelance writing articles for parenting websites in the afternoon while the kids napped. I kept a running tally of how much I had earned, and one year of feeling like I was doing nothing but taking care of the kids and writing, I had yet to earn as much as my husband made in a week. But I liked the balance it gave me – the opportunity to have a voice, to contribute more to our savings than the loose change I found in the laundry.

And yet I still struggled if I could even introduce myself as a freelance writer. I squeezed in writing when I could, but that was far from spending hours a day crafting beautiful and moving prose that would land me in magazines and journals that belonged to the realm of Actual Writers.

I kept staring at the screen. I didn’t know how to answer the question of who I was, and what I did, but typing up ridiculous drafts seemed to help.

Before I had children, I suppose I always assumed I would stay at home. This was not a particular plan or even a dream, however, rather it was simply my experience of motherhood – most mothers in my family, my own included, stayed at home. It was all I knew, and it seemed like a reasonable path.

At the same time, I pictured a career. The field changed depending where I was in my education, but I always assumed I would be working, possibly in academics or doing research somewhere. I never imagined quitting my job to stay at home with children, because in my mind, these two futures existed in completely separate realms and I had never truly considered how they would play out when the time came.

When I found out that I was pregnant the same week I finished graduate school, the paths crossed rather forcefully, making me finally sit down and think about what I wanted out of my career and family life. At times, staying at home felt like a failure, like wearing a sign that said, “I couldn’t figure out how to do it all.” Now that I was working part-time from home, it was an opportunity to have a foot in one world and a toe in the other.

There is a part of me that wishes I had thought this through earlier in life, figuring out earlier what the best way to balance work and family would be, despite the fact that as a feminist, the idea of telling a young girl, “Pick a career based on what your future family prospects!” makes me shudder. The other part of me realizes that detours are okay, and that my biography can have multiple first drafts before settling on a finished version, or at the very least, an opening paragraph.

I eventually typed up some mumbo jumbo about my academic background and areas of research experience. I didn’t mention that I had been a stay at home mom for the last two years. It wasn’t really relevant information, although part of me felt a bit disingenuous leaving it off. I could be many things – mother, worker, writer – sometimes at the same time, and sometimes not.

I’ll figure it out as I go.