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Feb. 24, 2006
Searching for balance
It's not easy being a mother and an individual.
SORIYA DANIELS
Like many of my counterparts, hit with pangs of guilt just thinking
about the potential ramifications of my decision, I am torn between
my son and myself. My prosecuting conscience, the internal voice
that diminishes my accomplishments and accentuates my shortcomings,
is at work again.
It's taunting, "Your son is a part of you. How could you be
torn between yourself and a part of you? If only you weren't so
self-centered." "Just a minute," the flip side of
my conscience protests, "You have put your life on hold for
almost three years. You struggled through a life-threatening pregnancy.
You raised your baby,
preemie on up, and stayed home with him, with no help, and struggled
in every conceivable way for over two years. Reconnect with your
former self."
Ah, my former self. Perhaps the memories are fonder than the realities.
I am most susceptible to these distortions when I am exasperated.
The dressing mirror reflects my pyjama-like wardrobe. The diaper
pail is constantly overflowing and despite the manufacturer's assurances
that it locks in odors, the darn thing always seems to smell. My
son resists eating and the clincher, my husband is on call at the
ER for the ninth night (and day) in a row.
As I scoop the last Cheerio off the floor, only to discover mashed-in
cheese stuck to the tile, I glorify my pre-mommy days: living in
Israel, coming and going as I pleased with only my dictionary in
hand in case I stumbled upon a new Hebrew word, the intellectualism
of my law school days (I have no fond memories of the practise of
law other than the paycheque), briefing the press from the Israeli
Consulate and lastly, the glamor of producing and hosting a television
program in New York. I miss the borrowed wardrobe, the high heels
I could no longer walk in anyway, producing and being in the limelight.
That was it – I was a productive, desirable person. Now I sit
home by myself late at night, in my suburban house, and pray my
husband gets home early enough to help me with bathtime. Yes, I
have even become a nag, a nudnik, according to my mother.
What happened to the multilingual go-getter, the jet-setter, I ask
myself almost daily. Why is it that motherhood all too often marks
a closure to individualhood? I love my son immensely and admit to
being quite overprotective and hyper-vigilant. That is part of my
problem. It is the primal feeling that my baby's very survival depends
entirely on me (and, more accurately, my watchful eye). So as much
as I've longed to do "something" out of the house, albeit
even unglamorous, those pangs of guilt, and then fear, set in.
And now, unlike generations before me, I grapple with my dilemma.
Should I pursue my dreams and leave my son to a stranger's care?
After much soul-searching, one thing is clear: I affirm my belief
in individual authenticity. That means that despite society's expectations,
my husband's expectations and those of my mother and mother-in-law,
I will not be happy until I am true to myself. Not everyone can
spend day after countless day chasing a toddler around, begging
him to eat something. I hated art as a kid, and I still don't like
it as an adult. I just have no interest in doing art projects and
besides, biting off a piece of a crayon is a choking hazard. I do
love reading to my son, a practice I have continued since he was
two months old. And we love to sing together and play in the sand.
But as much as I feign excitement playing peek-a-boo, my son's favorite
game, over and over, it just doesn't provide enough stimulation
for my aching brain.
Just as I tip the scales in favor of putting my son in play school
from nine to three - "That's too long a day," prods my
entire family with the exception of my supportive husband –
my friend Monique, also a stay-at-home mom, reminds me, "You
are replaceable to everyone but your child. Just think of your past
jobs. You were replaced, right?"
With the agenda now reversed, working doesn't seem so wonderful
anymore: from demanding bosses, deadlines and commutes to the banality
of "practising law," yet never seeing a courtroom after
being sworn in. The fluff and nonsense featured on my television
program, initially in the category of travelogue, also seems trite
in comparison to what I have created in real life: a wonderful child.
Maybe the answer lies in a balance. I have yet to find mine.
Soriya Daniels is a Florida-based freelance writer.
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