The Witching Hour

(My dear college friend and former roommate, Jane Wolansky, gets kudos for today’s word of inspiration: “crepuscular.”)

I love my dear friend Jane.  She has one of the most beautiful minds I have ever met, a fact that keeps me on my toes when I am around her.  I won’t embarrass her by elaborating on her amazing credentials.  Suffice it to say, she is proof that women can never be sold short in this world.  

Jane and I are eerily in sync about so many things.  We can go months or years without seeing each other, and then sit down and chat all day, going from topic to topic so fast a spectator would need a program and a scorecard to follow along.  Our relationship is one thing that Facebook has made better.  It bridges the miles, allowing us to check in with each other frequently as the time slices of our hectic lives allow.

Jane and I both married extraordinary men.  In fact, Jane was a bystander while I fell in love with Tom.  Both of us raised beautiful children—her three to my two—and are now supporting each other as they jump from the nest, one by one.  One area where we made different choices in our lives is how we raised our children.  Jane paused her career with the arrival of her children; I put my kids in daycare and continued to run the rat race.  These were choices that made sense for us given where we were in our lives.

Of all the challenges I have faced in life—family, health, finances, career—being a working mom is far and away the hardest.  It was made harder by the fact that many of my co-workers, including a short-lived boss, criticized me openly for this choice.  Truly, it was a choice; but it was a choice that, at the time, had to be made.  

The company for which I worked had a tumultuous and stressful environment.  We were sales driven.  It was not uncommon for me to jump on a plane with a few hours’ notice to help a sales associate tell our product story to an important client.  We had ugly office politics, particularly where marketing and R&D clashed wildly over decisions to deliver functionality.  Turf wars were common; people took things too personally.   And we were not “allowed” to miss our numbers.  

My corporate work life was a round-the-clock experience.  I was usually the person who turned on the lights in the morning, and often left while the janitors were vacuuming.  With the advent of “car phones,” I would work every moment until I pulled into my driveway.   I have no regrets about making this choice.  My career was fulfilling and, at the time, necessary.  I was fortunate to have the opportunity to play an important role in the healthcare industry as regulation and health reform intersected with the emergence of the information age.

But it came at a high price.  I missed a lot of moments and milestones with my children—things that can never be recaptured.  When my daughter chastises me today for being too concerned too often in her life, I try to impress upon her that it is not she who I distrust; it is my own parenting that leaves me in doubt.  In those days, Tom and I took each day as it came.  We could handle the professional stress at the office, but the relay of getting the kids out the door in the morning and settling them down at night caught us by surprise.

Fortunately, my kids were good sleepers (perhaps I will devote a future blog to how I trained them to sleep through the night), awaking most mornings with sunny dispositions.  They could not wait to go to “school” and play all day with the other kids.  We made a game of setting out their clothes the night before, which made morning routines efficient.  

Tom would normally scoop up the kids from daycare on his way home from work as I sat in endless Atlanta rush hour traffic.  My so-called “reverse commute” into the city could take between 25 and 90 minutes, depending on whether there was a baseball game, an accident, or sunspots.  We treasured those times when the four of us were able to reconnect at the end of the day over dinner.  They were rare enough to be special, even if hotdogs and macaroni and cheese were on the menu.

But despite the anticipation of an evening’s basking in the glow of our little family, what we usually got was Clash of the Titans.  I had always thought that daycare would be the saving grace of working moms, draining the energy and iron wills from the little juicebox-charged beings, returning them home to their tired parents in a pliable and loving state.  Instead, it was just the opposite.  After a day of Barney videos, structured activities, and good manners, these crepuscular beasts were just getting started.  They wanted to run in circles, dump toys on the floor, and be the center of the universe.  This was also the first time all day the kids saw each other.  Their respective acts of unrestraint turned inevitably to hurt feelings, leading to pathetic cries of “Mo-om!”

It took a lot of parental sleight of hand to maneuver the kids safely through the Witching Hour.  By the time dinner ended, they were once again delightful, anxious to read stories, take a warm bath, and cuddle in their jammies.  More often than not, they would disappear together.  At bedtime we would find them playing together conspiratorially in one of their rooms.  My son would acquiesce to being a guest at a tea party or my daughter would allow herself to be carried on his back.  The energy of the twilight hour safely discharged, they were once again, as they remain to this day, the best of friends.

I have met women from both sides of the fence, wearing “stay at home mom” or “working mom” as a badge of honor.  Like other women’s issues that are making national headlines today, I find this choice to be a highly personal one.  No one should be judged by how or why they choose to work or not.  I see many positive ways in which my former professional life is reflected in the values and dreams of my children.  I also see the ways in which my friend Jane’s influence is imprinted on her children.   In the end, we are the best moms we can be by being the best we can be.  

I value my friend Jane for the attention she pays, not only to her own kids, but also to the exploits of mine.  It is no passing rhetorical interest, nor is it a snarky, competitive tit for tat.  She follows their progress sincerely, asks probing questions that demonstrate that she is engaged, and cares about their well-being.  I share a true interest in the pursuits of her children as well.  They are each remarkable and certain to be important contributors to their fields.  This joy we get—not only from our own children, but also from sharing them with each other—is an unexpected gift in our long friendship.