This morning, I’m republishing an essay from the archives that has been heavy on my mind since we parted (amicable) ways with our nanny two weeks ago. She was seeking full-time work, and we scarcely need two or three hours of support on weekdays. I tried, with no luck, to find a part-time replacement, before contemplating whether Landon and I could manage on our own, at least for summer, when routines are slack, and travel lays ahead. The children will be in camp for about half the summer…? The arrangement has been an adjustment, but I have been finding satisfaction in the way it feels to be at home, just the four of us. I find myself integrated in my children’s lives in a way I simply wasn’t before. I have tried to phrase that line seven different ways so as to diffuse the knot of guilt that collects each time I write it — cutting room floor evidence of my mixed emotions about its meaning. What do I do with the round happiness I feel doing it on our own? (Our being the operative word – Landon handles at least half of the afternoons each week!) Some of this must be conditioned by my admiration for my mother, a dutiful and wonderful stay-at-home mom. I realize this situation is privileged and nuanced — choosing to have a nanny, then choosing to go without. I know that many women don’t have these options. And so I find myself grappling with the very saltings I discussed below. Because I have the choice, have I made the right one for the past few years? Am I making the right choice now? Will my writing suffer? Will my patience wane? As with much of life, I will never know until I try. Onward.
*****
A week or two ago, I picked my son up from school, which is something I almost never do. He saw me through the transom window as he was descending from the upstairs classroom, and I heard his voice — almost a shriek — “Mama!” — followed by quick footwork down the stairs (TIP-tip-TIP-tip-TIP-tip). He flew through the doors, right into my arms.
“He was so happy when he saw you,” whispered his teacher knowingly, her eyes soft. She squeezed my arm.
Later that evening, we went over to dinner at my parents’ home with my sister and her family.
“Mama picked me up today. Not my nanny,” he announced loudly, and smugly, to no one and in response to nothing. He smirked and hugged his arms around himself in satisfaction.
Two mornings later, still in the miserable wake of daylight savings time, I went into his room to rouse him for school. Unlike adults, who need time to hatch and grumble about the imposition of light, children can go from dead asleep to wide awake in less than a second. His head popped up, and he smiled at me through morning eyes, and he said: “Remember when you picked me up at school?”
That night, I laid in my bed, unable to sleep, and I cried about this. What did it mean? It is not feasible for me to pick him up every day, at least in my current work flow. But could I change that? Would I one day regret all the 3 P.M. pick-ups I missed in favor of a more steady unfolding of creative time? Was it fair (to myself, to women in general) to say I “missed” those pick-ups in the first place? After all, I am working while he is being ferried home from school. I am providing for my family, and fulfilling my own vocation. I am present for so much of his life — almost every weekday breakfast, dinner, and bedtime, and we spend a lot of time together, just the four of us, on the weekends, in pursuit of our “not busy” lifestyle.
I scrambled for grounding elsewhere, plumbing my own childhood, in which my Dad dropped us off in the mornings and my Mom scooped us up in the afternoons. I don’t recall harboring or expressing any sentiment about the arrangement. But perhaps it is different when it is a parent versus a nanny.
I continued to strain for context. I reasoned: I drop him off every other morning; if I forewent that cockcrow commute regularly, would he say the same thing on the odd occasion I slipped into the driver’s seat? “Mama dropped me off today”? Perhaps he was simply expressing excitement about the un-ordinariness of my surprise pick-up, and if I were to retrieve him daily, he’d never make such proclamations–might, in fact, beg for someone else to get him.
A few weeks ago, I had drinks with two girlfriends, one of whom is a hard-working lawyer with intense hours and the other of whom is a hard-working stay at home mom with also-intense hours. The latter commented that she sometimes looks at her life and has no idea how she got here. “I went from finance to this, and sometimes I wonder about going back,” she mused. She expressed worry that she wasn’t fully living up to her potential, that she’d had a promising professional career and felt ambivalent about what it meant that she was now working in the home. My lawyer friend sighed. “The grass is always greener,” she offered. She went on to explain that her daughter had been tasked with ascribing a descriptive word to each member of her family, and that her daughter had described her as “work.”
We have reached the saltings. The sticky, swampy parts that nearly all of us footslog into and out of over the course of our motherhoods, unsure of footing, prey to unknown tides. There are no patterns here. No formulas; no bright lines. The inputs for each family are complex, individualized, and mutative. Particularly maddening: sometimes I feel I’ve struck a good, or workable balance, and then my son tells me, in twenty-two different ways, that all he wants is for me to pick him up from school once in awhile, and I feel like I’ve been yammering into a phone with a cut cord.
What then?
Deep breaths. A reminder that parenthood is a process, not a place, or a condition.
I let myself cry for a few minutes. Then I wondered about other ways to make myself available to him that would not be as challenging to accommodate in my current workweek. One such: in the afternoons, my children like to come into my studio bearing drawings, fistfuls of snacks, news of their worlds. The rule is (generally): one visitation after they arrive home, and then they need to respect my closed door. This has been a difficult boundary for both of my children, and a nearly impossible one for me. Sometimes I sit in my study wavering between furious impatience and heart-wracked agony when they are calling for me, and they know they are not to come in, and I long to retreat from my own rules, both to quiet the fracas and to give into their needs. But I am working, I remind myself — and them, when they are open to hearing it. And it is difficult (for me) to lay brushstrokes separated by small conversations. Beyond that, it is important to me to model discipline and seriousness about my craft. When my door is closed, it should be perceived no differently than when my husband is on a work call and his door is closed. And, of course, there is the bigger issue of remaining firm with boundaries.
But.
As it turns out, there is some give in the leather.
I have started to really shut my work off when my children skitter into my room in the afternoons. I fully turn myself away from the computer, remove my hands from the keys, pull him into my lap — or sometimes walk out into the liminal space between my studio and their rooms, get down onto his eye level, and focus myself such that I lean into that conversation. My goal, when I hear the door crack open, is to give 100% of my attention to him for those five minutes in which he must tell me about the scrape on his knee, or the cookie his teacher gave him at lunch, or the various meannesses of his sibling. If I can’t be there at pick-up, then I can be here, fully, waiting for him with anticipation and warmth, when he returns to me.
So onward we go. Looking for ways to show him that he is, and always has been, at the very center of my day, no matter who picks him up from school.
Oh, Magpies. If you are standing in the saltings today: I’m right there with you, feet half-sunk in the quick-moving sand.
Post-Scripts.
+The myth of Soteria — or, coming to terms with grief over losing some of my son’s baby days during the pandemic lockdown.
+On the notion of “remaining interesting” to your partner after having a child.
+Building friendships through motherhood.
Shopping Break.
This post may contain affiliate links. If you make a purchase through the links below, I may receive compensation.
+I found my favorite sandals on sale in gold for under $150! (Use code EXTRA15 for 15% off.)
+I just ordered a few fun, well-priced things for summer from Shopbop: I’d rather be in Mykonos, this colorful crochet dress, and these beach pants.
+Some great clearance items at Serena and Lily right now: this beach house blanket (major #lakehousecore vibes); this scalloped rattan pendant light, and this $30 rug (perfect by a back door!)
+It’s the summer of the drop-waist dress! Consider this $40 steal!
+Our Margaux code for $35 off first time orders (use MAGPIE35) expires 6/16. I have been wearing these ankle wrap sandals constantly on the weekend. Also love this newer style they just released!
+On the heels of the Doen sailor dress launch, discovered this #sailorcore dress from Staud! Super elegant.
+Obsessed with Staud bags right now: this snail (!!!), this Celine-esque moon bag, this “tackle box.”
+I own this oversized denim maxi dress and LOVE it. Would be great with bump — runs very oversized, but in a stiff, heavy denim that makes it feel substantial and fashion-y. On sale in several colors right now!
+Perfect casual outdoor dining napkins.