The Constant Pull I Feel As A Working Mom

I wake up around 5:00am to the sweet babbling of my little one. For some beautiful reason, my daughter never wakes up crying. Instead, she just chatters in her bed until I make my sleepy way into her room. I bend down and say good morning and am greeted with the biggest, most beautiful, tongue-out, slobbery smile.

It never gets old. I scoop her up in my arms and we snuggle into our rocking chair in the corner of her room. I nurse her, and in the dark quiet of the early morning, she nods back off to sleep. I know I need to go get ready, that I only have another hour or so before she’s ready to be up for the day. I know that I can’t be late to work again, that I have no excuse to not go in. In that moment, I’d give anything to drift off to sleep with her in my arms, no demands on us, no timeline, just uninterrupted bonding with my baby. But instead I lay her back in her crib and make my way to the shower.

After I’ve gotten ready and am scrambling to get everything packed for the day, I hear her sweet little voice again. I go in to get her up. I’m thankful for the half hour I get to play with her, get her dressed, and snuggle her before we have to load up and head to daycare. I have to fight off the pit in my stomach every morning as I hear my little one cooing in the back seat. I sing to her, talk to her, tell her I love her and that I so badly wished I didn’t have to be away from her all day. These things are said more to comfort me than her, let’s be honest. I drop her off with the incredible women who are there with smiles on, day after day. I tell them how she’s been so far this morning, when she ate last, and any other tidbits they might need. And then I leave, knowing that was the last part of the day when I know how she’s doing firsthand. The rest of it will be told to me; what she played with and discovered, how she ate, when I should feed her next. It’s hard and it’s heavy.

I sit down at my desk at work. I put my favorite Pandora station on, grab my hot, fresh cup of coffee, and start plowing through the emails that have accrued from the night before. I check my voicemails and hear from a client who really needs to talk. I remember the hours she and I have spent together thus far, the conversations we’ve had, the strength and resilience she has but needs to be reminded of. I am grateful for the meeting I have with her today. It’s been a couple of days, and seeing her face to face will allow me to assess how she’s really doing.

I take a long lunch with co-workers, enjoying the company of people I respect and relate to. I return to work to a training opportunity and a few questions I need to address for staff. I feel rejuvenated, useful, and challenged. I feel like myself.

Mid way through the afternoon, I call the daycare to see how my Charlotte is doing. I’m told she’s in a great mood, that she has done a record amount of tummy time, and that she just fell asleep in sweet Ms. J’s arms. I smile. All at once I feel immense amounts of gratitude and jealousy towards these women. They get so much of her.

Right after I hang up with the center, I get a work call. It’s a hospital and an advocate is needed right away. It’s 3:30pm. There’s no way I will be able to make it to the hospital, provide the support that victim deserves, and be able to pick little bit up by 5:30. I respond promptly, “I am on my way.” Gathering up my things, I text my mom and ask her to make the daycare run. I love being able to provide support and crisis intervention, and I am not going to leave that woman at the hospital without someone by her side.

Upon arriving at the hospital, all other thoughts leave my mind. I am consumed with this woman and her story. For the next three hours I am engaged with the victim, the hospital staff, law enforcement, local shelters, and her family. Finally, my portion is over. I leave her with my number and a ride to a safe place. I tell her we will talk in the morning. I breathe a sigh of relief and thankfulness. What happened to her is atrocious. But she’s not alone. She knows now that she’s not alone.

I pull into my driveway. It’s dark now. I can see my mom rocking my baby through the window. Suddenly I’m hit with remorse. Guilt. Sadness. The few short hours I get with my baby in the evening are gone. It was my mom’s face that she saw through her closing eye lids. Our routine of playing and nursing and singing and getting supper ready hadn’t happened. I’d missed it.

I walk in the door, choking back tears. My mom greets me with a smile and immediately passes my little one to me. She sleeps so peacefully in my arms. I cry softly and whisper to her that I’m sorry. I explain to her why I couldn’t be here this evening, that someone had been hurt and needed mommy’s help. I told her I’d be there first thing in the morning, when her beautiful voice would wake me up. And I try to convince myself of these things as well. I try to affirm that I’m doing a good job, that my love for my job doesn’t take away my love for my daughter.

But the pull wins for the night. I am completely overwhelmed by the two lives I love so dearly.

XOXO,

Ali

This post was written by Amber’s sister-in-law, Ali. For more real life moments from Ali, follow her on Instagram: @ali8209.