On Having It All

Okay, so everyone and their mother has been talking about Slaughter’s article “Why Women Still Can’t Have It All.” I confess I haven’t read it, though D paraphrased it to me. But here, in case anyone is interested, is my opinion on having it all.

If by “having it all” one means achieving as much in your career as you could without kids, and being as present a mother as you could without work, then you can’t have it all. One would think an idiot could figure that out, but it is a surprisingly personal and difficult realization, probably because it goes against something to realize that we face this by being women, and because it contradicts the preceding trajectory of our lives. I’ve seen most women in my field work through this at one point or another, some much later than others.

I figured this out January 2010. I had gone back to the hardest residency rotation of the year three months after she was born. She was in a twelve-hour daycare, and we were still struggling to pick her up on time. Once, the daycare closed due to a blizzard, I was scrubbed in operating, D was placing a line in a patient in the ICU, and one of us had to go pick her up. D left in the middle of his procedure, picked her up, and by some miracle we found a friend to watch her for the rest of the day.

I felt a lot of pressure at that point in my training to obtain surgical numbers, and was working over twelve hours a day. She was only awake twelve hours a day, and spent those hours at a daycare where she didn’t eat or sleep well, since we couldn’t afford a nanny on two residents’ salaries. I lost my milk supply without time to pump between operating. D was doing what he could and we were both praying we wouldn’t have to take call on the same night.

I remember standing in the shower one night and thinking, this isn’t worth it. No career is worth this. I saw what the women who gave everything to their jobs were like and didn’t want to become them. I decided at that point that if I couldn’t find a part-time job, I’d quit. I became the first part-time faculty hired at my institution, but eventually moved from academics to private practice for various reasons, one of which was that the pay wasn’t enough there to even cover childcare costs.

Up until that then, I always did what it took at work. I purposely picked the hardest rotations in med school if I thought I’d be trained better, and the same sentiment led me to Hopkins for residency. But I think seeing what women were like there in the long run, seeing what a toll work took on our marriage, laid the groundwork for what ended up being a very easy decision.

Because I think there is something about realizing you can’t have it all that allows you to have peace. You have to let go of that notion, you have live according to what you believe to be more important, or nothing else falls into place. The sooner you figure that out, the better. I am glad there are women breaking the glass ceiling, but that is not me, not now. Just because I could, doesn’t mean I should. And that also goes for men and being fathers. It also goes for not shortchanging your marriage for your career.

I realize I’m lucky to be in a field where part-time work is productive and lucrative. I still see patients and operate: I am not a leader in the field, nor the most productive surgeon in the area, and it will take me longer to build experience, but that is a small price to pay for being there for my kids. That is a small price to pay for being there for my husband.

I wonder sometimes if this outcome was worth all the training, but I think it was. It gave me a certain standard and approach that makes me feel I offer something unique clinically and surgically, it taught me efficiency and an inability to be fazed by difficult situations, and it helped me realize being somewhere prestigious is not really worth the price. All of these are qualities that enrich the time I do spend at work, allow me to do more at work within the limits I set, and give me peace about those limits.

Jesus never said we could have it all. He never said having it all is the key to happiness, or the point of life. It is an illusion, driven perhaps by our desire to fulfill ourselves rather than ask God how he wants us to serve. Am I glad I still work? Yes, because I believe God has given me a gift and skill set to keep up which I can use for his kingdom. I believe it makes me a healthier person and thus a better mother. Am I glad I stay at home most of the week? Yes, because I can know and steward my children, which I often feel is the harder task. Am I glad I can support my husband’s career, and have at least some time for our marriage? Yes, because I think marriages always take the back burner to work and kids. Is everything perfect? No. We’re always reassessing, adjusting. There’s a certain messiness that I’m starting to think is just life. But there is peace. Perhaps less outward ambition than I used to have, but more peace, and that’s a trade I’m willing to make.

And Then We Had Kids

Having kids is tough on a marriage. The popular romantic plotlines involving two people solidifying their love by having a baby (Knocked Up, Life As We Know It, The Back-Up Plan) is bollocks. The bonding over having a baby is definitely outweighed by the stressors.

Don’t get me wrong—it is a real privilege getting to see D as a dad. It reveals a whole side of him that I wouldn’t have known otherwise. But it has changed our marriage. I would say having kids changed my life more than getting married, so perhaps it’s no surprise. Things that were easy before are harder now—getting time alone, sharing hobbies or ministries. Things that were hard before are harder now—arguing well, communicating about sex. Before our conversations sounded like, “what have you been thinking about lately?” “what do you think about this book/movie/article?” Now they sound like, “does he need a diaper change?” “when did he last feed?” “did she get a bath already?” “here, you feed/change/hold/play with her while I feed/change/hold/play with him.” Sometimes we debate exciting issues like, “who had a harder day?” “whose turn is it to ­­____?” or our favorite, “who is more sleep-deprived?”

With the kids, we are always giving and giving. When we get a breather, we try regain a sense of ourselves; it’s not natural to turn around and give to each other, or even think about each other for more than a few minutes.

You go along for a while like this, and it seems okay, but then a fight happens, or a long late-night discussion, and you realize your marriage does not have inexhaustible reserves. Your selfishness comes out more; your emotion for the other person wanes. It’s like a bank account: you can’t keep withdrawing without making deposits. A parent dying, job issues, childcare, absence, big tests—those all withdraw on our relational capital. Thinking about the other person, praying for them, spending quality time, being purposeful about growth, being honest about weaknesses that need work—these are deposits.

I went back and read letters we had written while dating, and it’s incredible how much we invested in our relationship. D has this notebook where he had actually written ideas for things he could talk to me about or questions he could ask me, which he obviously had thought a lot about (no wonder our phone conversations were so good).

We both understand this is a stage in life, one in which our kids deplete a good amount of our physical and emotional reserves. Navigating how to build up our marriage right now is something we’re figuring out. I wish people talked more about how to do this; I wish we had more honest and outstanding role models. Who impresses me with how much they cherish and grow their marriage? It’s hard to think of a lot of examples.

We’re trying a few things. We have the luxury of weekly dates with my parents around to watch the kids. We try to take a few minutes to pray together regularly. We understand that our relationship with each other is the least clamorous, but most important, one in our lives, and that’s a start.

Journal Excerpt

Sometimes, when I come home, she runs up to me, shouting MA-MA! MA-MA! and hugs my legs over and over and says I LOVE YOU! I MISS YOU! and then it’s all sort of worth it.

Idiosyncracy

I suppose each stage with her has its challenges. I remember when she wanted me to repeat everything over and over. Singing “The Wheels on the Bus” ten times in a row in the car made me want to go bang my head against a wall, and it felt like that would never end, but it did.

The challenges now are her idiosyncratic demands. She wants me to sit here, not there. She wants to eat this, in this particular bowl, with this color spoon. She wants her food cut up to specific dimensions. She wants her cup next to the cup holder, not in it. She wants me to tuck her in along every spot of her sides and feet when she goes to bed—woe unto me if I’ve missed a single one. She wants to unscrew her toothpaste bottle herself but wants me to put the paste on; she wants to hold the toothbrush herself but wants me to make the brushing motions for her.

It’s plain exhausting. Fail to follow her particular wishes, and I get anything from a mild protest to screaming and crying. I spend some days picking my battles from minute to minute.

I think some of this is her desire for greater independence and control—it’s the inevitable tension between wanting to do something herself, yet sometimes not being able to, and therefore wanting to tell me exactly how to do it instead. It’s like a G-rated preview of the teenage years: I want it that way!

A lot of it is also her personality: she’s always been a sophisticated and precise communicator, sensitive to and observant of her environment, and concerned about the welfare of others. Her verbal skills have extended to giving a detailed rationale for everything: she can’t be polite because her boo-boo hurts and as a result she is unable to speak. She doesn’t want to swim anymore because she spotted a gnat in the pool five feet away. She wants me to change my seat because my butt is getting sore. She needs to go upstairs right now because her bunny is crying and needs to be picked up. She doesn’t want to wear shorts in 100-degree weather because she needs to cover up the boo-boo that she got two months ago that isn’t even visible anymore.

Maybe one day I’ll look back and find all this charming, but right now I mostly find it hard not to lose my patience. I navigate between explaining, distracting, bribing, ordering, and yielding. At least he doesn’t say much. He just sits staring, eyes big with wonder as he listens to her explanations: don’t eat that, dee-dee, you might choke. Don’t be scared of that bug; sister’s here with you. I won’t leave you, don’t worry. Mommy’s going to get rice cereal for you; she’ll be back. You should play with this toy, not that one…

Journal Excerpt

This is her newest stalling tactic: “one more minute!” Let me play one more minute before my nap! Let me stay one more minute before going home! Why would you deny me one minute?

At the same time she’ll hold up two fingers. Which is oddly appropriate because of course she has no concept of time.

This is similar to what he does when he doesn’t want to eat something (which right now is ground chicken or avacado). He purses his lips shut and cries with his mouth closed, which sounds like a pitiful “mmmm, mmmm” while he looks up at me with an expression that says, why? Why would you feed this to me? Why??

A Few of My Favorite Things

She is the perfect embodiment of that phrase about one man’s junk being another man’s treasure. She acquires random objects with careful deliberation: a plastic tube for holding coins, my old school pins, two stray toothpicks, one earring, an assortment of coins. It’s strange to see old childhood relics making an appearance, and I’m now glad my parents didn’t throw it all away. She collects anything with a lid: glass jars, plastic yogurt or ice cream cans, used pocket-sized hand sanitizers.

She puts them all carefully together in various bags and containers she finds. She’s terribly sneaky about finding some knick-knack at my parents’ house, then secretly stowing it in her diaper bag to bring home. Once my mom caught her at it and told her, it’s okay, you can take that, after which she kept repeating, “grandma said I could take it!” Since it was probably something that would have gone in the trash can, I wasn’t too surprised.

I used to be worried about her losing them, until I realized she knows exactly where all of them are. Where’s that paper clip? I know, ma-ma, she says; it’s in the green container upstairs (it’s strange how grown-up-like she is when she talks to me now; it’s all “Ma-ma, let me tell you” or “listen for a bit, ma-ma”). Then I started wishing I could lose them, just to avoid having random trash-like objects strewn everywhere around the house.

When I tidy up these days, it reminds me of her. Sometimes I feel like taking a picture of the things I find: her stuffed dolphin and chick sitting side-by-side in the middle of the door to his room, when she put it there for him to play with (and instead nearly tripped us with). Her dolls and bears sitting in the bumbo chair, swing, or high chair. Stickers everywhere. I have to check my clothing for random stickers before going out. Once she stuck a big rainbow sticker in the center of D’s black T-shirt and he wore it all day without noticing.

She reminds me sometimes: it’s the little things. She forces me to stop and notice the little things, and that’s good.

Letting Go

He’s at this curious stage of development where he’s quite good at grabbing things—his range of reach is impressive—but unable to voluntarily let them go. He hoards Cheerios in his dimple-knuckled fists, but can’t do more than wave them around while drooling madly. Sometimes I pry his fists open later in the day and find stray Cheerios inside; more often he loosens his grip at random moments and I find them littering the floor.

It’s interesting how letting something go requires more advanced development than grabbing hold of something. It has to be learned; it doesn’t come naturally. Of course parenting requires learning this too. You have to let go of predictably sleeping through the night, of peeing or showering whenever you want. You let go of hobbies that used to define you—being a pianist, a writer. You let go of working, or socializing, or serving in ministry the way you used to.

At some level this all has to be processed, grieved over, and accepted, and it happens in different times and ways depending on one’s gender or personality. It took me a long time to understand that D needed to grieve over the loss of the life we had, when it was just the two of us. When we could spontaneously eat out, or travel, or go out for a movie. And it took me a while to realize that, despite being more of a homebody and wanting to be the one taking care of the kids, I needed to not let go of everything so much and keep regular time for myself—not as a mother, or wife, or doctor; just for me—or things would fall apart rather quickly. It took me a while not to feel guilty taking time for myself.

And of course parenting requires letting go of your kids themselves. Having two kids helps with this. The biggest thing I’ve learned since dee-dee came along is that you think you are controlling the way your kids turn out, but you’re not. We’re doing the same thing with him we did for her, but they are completely different. She slept through the night at this age; he does not. She ate anything; he doesn’t. She glared at strangers; he smiles so much people five rows down in the airplane were making faces.

And even she is unpredictable. Suddenly she’s sharing, or being polite, when I haven’t changed anything I did. She’s extremely particular, and extremely nurturing, when I don’t recall teaching her to be either. Just shows that you have to plug along, be consistent and pray a lot, and let go of some of the rest.

Sometimes when he’s fallen asleep in my arms, I look down at him and wonder, who will you be? What will you do with your life? Will you be just as stubborn? Will you stand for what matters? I hope every step in his life will be one made in safety, made in righteousness, and made for the kingdom, but I don’t know. Sometimes I hope he’ll stay this small with me forever. Sometimes I wish he could wipe his own butt and put himself to bed. I suppose we let go of wanting what we don’t have, of being able to control what happens, in order to really gain and enjoy what matters.

Checking In Again

Hello; anyone there? I have to confess I almost forgot this blog existed until someone I hadn’t met before told me tonight that she reads it. D mentioned this later and said I should start writing again, now that I have more time.

A lot has happened in the past year: we moved three times, bought a house. We had a second baby; went through the death of D’s dad and two funerals. I started a new job; D started two new jobs. We both went through intense studying to take the boards; he took the written one last fall, and I just finished dragging the family to San Francisco in what was the most harrowing trip ever so I could take my oral boards. Most of the above was happening at the same time.

We’re finally at a place where things are not so crazy. Dee-dee is at that age where they get easier and you can start to see the light at the end of the tunnel. He sat in a grocery cart seat for the first time today; the two of them sat side-by-side, and D and I strolled beside them like normal people. I didn’t have to strap on the Bjorn or lug in a stroller. E remains genuinely fond of him, and has gotten old enough to do stuff like run upstairs to grab diaper and wipes, give him toys and read books to him while I’m busy, and stuff his mouth with Cheerios. Unfortunately she’s also old enough to unlock the front door when no one’s looking, which explains why I sometimes find the door swinging open on windy days.

Work is settling down too. It’s such a huge relief to be done with the last big test—that is, if I find out I pass. I’ve been cramming the same facts so many years in a row I won’t know what to do with myself. I’ve settled more into work and almost feel guilty enjoying private practice this much so far—it’s efficient, I have the flexibility to do the clinical work and procedures that I like, and am getting paid more than I ever have for working the least that I ever have. There are people who take notes for me, write scripts, field calls, schedule procedures, even walk patients from room to room.

What I haven’t done a lot of lately is process. A friend asked me recently, what has God been showing you? and I drew a blank. So maybe it’ll be good for me to try to write more. We’ll see.