I was going to start this post with “why didn’t anyone tell me how exhausting it is to be a working mother?” when really, people say it all the time. Sadly it’s not one of those truisms that’s diminished by repetition. I went back to work almost exactly a year ago and have done two posts in the interim. This, my beloved blog, has been left by the wayside, along with a dozen home improvement plans and my pre-pregnancy jeans.
Working moms, as my friend Christy and I commiserate, spend their lives in a sleepless, hazy world of being two unfulfilled people. The worst part is that even if I had the chance I still wouldn’t quit – because that perfectionist beast inside me that insists I could still win a Nobel Prize would be a complete basket case without at least a small outlet. But, a perfectionist is a nagging harridan that is not easily appeased, and the positive reinforcements that we thrive on become fewer and far between as we get deeper into careers that turn into, well, jobs. Just a job. You can either work 80 hours a week and claw your way up the ladder, or accept the jobbishness of it.
So now I’m at a real quandry – I can either work myself into the ground and never be satisfied with the work I’m doing as either a scientist or parent, or accept that maybe, for the next little while, that perfectionist strategy that got me so far is not going to do me any favours and I’ll try a new strategy. Perhaps contentment?
And I’m going to practice the skill that’s imperative for all moms, those working and those working harder at home. I’m going to make sure to spend at least a little time doing something I love. Even if it’s an hour a week, I want to write my blog. It’s all mine. And I got lots to talk about.
