musings on an April morning
(3/28/04)
Well, I am here now, at work. It’s Monday. It is raining outside. Dreary day, and I am already more than ready to go home or crawl under my desk and take a nap. This morning saw me leaving for work late, with Cara crying that she did not want me to go. Then, I walked into the 18th floor kitchen, and the cover of the Time Magazine caught my eye - a mother with a small, happy child and the title, “The Case for Staying Home” across the bottom of the picture. I gritted my teeth and fought the urge to put a post-it on the Magazine with something like, “fuck you” written in bold, red letters. If I had the option, I sure as hell would not be here. In a way, I was offended that someone would so tactlessly put that in here.
I thought specifically of Valerie, who sits next to me, and just returned from maternity leave. She is just learning the meaning of mommy guilt, as she tears herself away from her new baby girl every morning. Every 2-4 hours, she finds an empty conference room or office where she can use her breast pump.
There is the secretary on the floor above me who is due any day now. She walks through the hall with a hand always protectively over her belly.
Cara, my 4 year old, is so disturbed that I now work full time that she worries in her sleep and wakes up repeatedly, wondering when I am going to leave.
We take ourselves to court daily, building a case to come here, to work. This is not a career. This is not where we find purpose and meaning. This is our sentence. This is survival.
Outside, it is still raining.
Well, I am here now, at work. It’s Monday. It is raining outside. Dreary day, and I am already more than ready to go home or crawl under my desk and take a nap. This morning saw me leaving for work late, with Cara crying that she did not want me to go. Then, I walked into the 18th floor kitchen, and the cover of the Time Magazine caught my eye - a mother with a small, happy child and the title, “The Case for Staying Home” across the bottom of the picture. I gritted my teeth and fought the urge to put a post-it on the Magazine with something like, “fuck you” written in bold, red letters. If I had the option, I sure as hell would not be here. In a way, I was offended that someone would so tactlessly put that in here.
I thought specifically of Valerie, who sits next to me, and just returned from maternity leave. She is just learning the meaning of mommy guilt, as she tears herself away from her new baby girl every morning. Every 2-4 hours, she finds an empty conference room or office where she can use her breast pump.
There is the secretary on the floor above me who is due any day now. She walks through the hall with a hand always protectively over her belly.
Cara, my 4 year old, is so disturbed that I now work full time that she worries in her sleep and wakes up repeatedly, wondering when I am going to leave.
We take ourselves to court daily, building a case to come here, to work. This is not a career. This is not where we find purpose and meaning. This is our sentence. This is survival.
Outside, it is still raining.
posted by Joy | 1:09 PM
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