Michael Alexander was up from 11 p.m. until 4 a.m., teeming with boundless energy. I was fighting back the tears, struggling to smile while trying to soothe him into a sleeplike state. He finally fell asleep around 4:30, after a crying fit as passionate as his five-hour overnight playfest. He was back up as soon as Mike left for work after returning from his uber-early gym shift. Mike works out and goes to work even earlier on Wednesdays so I can get to the gym on time to secure my spot in favorite abs class that starts at 6:15 p.m.
Michael Alexander appears well-rested, smiling and playing without any apparent interest in a nap. I have devoured a pot of very strong coffee just to keep up with him. I put him in the Jumperoo so I could scribble my barely coherent thoughts. He's learning as he bounces, smiling at me for approval as he meticulously places plastic fruits into the corresponding spots in exchange for a light. That smile is the only thing that's keeping me from crumbling.
My dear friend Kate suggested that maybe he's not sleeping because of a developmental milestone. That's quite possible, as he learned to clap properly during storytime Monday, and was up in the middle of the night flaunting his newly perfected skill. He's also taking more solo steps without wobbling. It is so exciting to witness his rapid progress as he quickly approaches his first birthday. I just wish I could get enough rest to match his exuberance.
Mindy Greenstein, a psycho-oncologist and consultant at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center, last week blogged about motherhood. She calls it "the most invisible, undervalued job that I have ever had." No doubt Greenstein commands a fat salary for her work at Memorial. It is probably even more than the estimated (and of course, hypothetical) *salary* for a stay-at-home mom in Manhattan. According to salary.com, the local median for a SAHM in my zip code is $139,888, in a range of $117,583 to $169,794. Even at the low end, that's more than most executive editor jobs I'm qualified for pay. And those figures are for last year, in a report that posts increases every year.
I don't expect a paycheck for my labor of love, but even the most grueling day at the office ends. Here I am, brought to you exclusively by the power of caffeine, focusing purely on my sweet son's smile. I have so much to do around the house, which quickly transforms into a disaster zone after two mostly sleepless nights, but I am expending every ounce of energy to keep Michael Alexander entertained.
I am actively applying for full-time jobs. I've had a few interviews, all positive, until the topic of salary arises. None match the low end of my "typical" SAHM compensation. The most interesting job I interviewed for this week pays a pittance which is less than half of my average salary of the last five years. I just received an email follow up to an interview last week. I wasn't expecting to hear back, as I thought I was out of the game once I'd mentioned at the end of a lengthy interview that I have a nearly year-old son. The job requires the editor to be on call 24/7. I'm already on call 24/7.
I'm grappling with how to reply to this email. Of course I am flattered to emerge as the top contender in a hyper-competitive market. This job doesn't pay the "typical" SAHM rate, but it's enough to offset the cost of childcare. I am tempted, as I struggle with a job title that makes me "invisible," but I shudder to think that reclaiming visibility requires me to be on call when my son needs me most. I am crafting my response now, negotiating for a slightly higher salary and some flexibility over being on call 24/7.
I'm not sure what it will take for me to trade my invisible paycheck for a living wage.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day
I didn't wake up with gum in my hair, but it turned out to be a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day for (Michael) Alexander('s Mom).
Michael Alexander has been battling a cold for a couple days. Mike and I also have been stricken with a stomach flu of some sort, but I will spare you the details. Suffice it to say, it's been a tough few days, the last two with practically no sleep. Our normally happy son couldn't be consoled the last two nights, crying from pain that was clearly beyond the obvious sniffles and cough. I suspected an ear infection and called his doctor's office yesterday. It was booked solid all day, but the nurse offered me the last appointment for today.
I muster enough ambition to drag myself downstairs, lugging laundry, ahead of the appointment. It will be quick, I think, since we have a real appointment and aren't just walking in during the daily sick hour. We'll be back just in time to transfer the loads to dryers. Running through the torrential rain, we arrive at the doctor's office a few minutes early. Michael Alexander is dry thanks to his stroller rain cover. I am drenched, my trench coat rendered useless other than soaking up about five pounds from the deluge. My eyes irritated from the congestion and sinus pressure, I wear my glasses out -- a very rare, and very bad choice. I lock up the stroller and attempt to carry Michael Alexander inside without getting him soggy from my coat.
The office is busy, as expected, and the waiting room is especially cramped as I am the only solo parent to accompany a child. How do these people always get time off? My frustration is compounded when two families arrive with a nanny to assist the couple. What I wouldn't have given to have someone help me haul the car seat and take a taxi, or at least run in for the stroller lock while I watch Michael Alexander. My wet hair plastered to my face, my jeans and sneakers slick, I sit downstairs, feeling inferior among the cabbing couples. We wait nearly two hours. So much for getting back in time for the laundry. My success keeping Michael Alexander dry as I carried him into the office and back to the stroller is squashed when I find someone had removed the rain cover. It was a little windy, but not windy enough to topple the cover. Someone clearly unfastened the Velcro. I cry as I compose my rage.
Michael Alexander is diagnosed with a double ear infection and a slight bronchial infection. We use a nebulizer at the office, and the doctor prescribes one for home, along with Albuterol (a stimulant) and Amoxicillin. The doctor calls the trinity of treatment into Bigelow and I expect to pick up and pay upon arrival. "We got the call, yes," the pharmacist says. "We will fill it now." OK. I'm not sure why it hadn't already been filled, but I am assured it was now being filled "now." A half hour later, I am still soaked, my sore throat raw, my nose running and my head about to implode from the sinus pressure. I am struggling to soothe my son, who now needs a change and more milk. I ask about the order. "Oh, it will be a half hour." Another half hour? I was told it would be filled "now!" Bigelow, by the way, doesn't accept our insurance card, so it's an out-of-pocket payment for a wait that makes the chain stores seem charming. (Well, not really.) At this point, the only thing that keeps me from committing myself to Bellevue is my suffering son. I nearly storm out of the tony landmark chemist, but compose myself enough to raise my voice just enough to speed the process.
Michael Alexander smiles as soon I give him his first dose of antibiotics while I am instructed on how to assemble the nebulizer's tubes and dispense the medication. My son is easily comforted, as the fast-acting antibiotics take nearly immediate effect. It takes me a little longer to regain any semblance of sanity. I'm not quite there yet. More than three hours later, we hustle home, again pounded by rain. The rain, of course, started just before we left in the morning and stopped shortly after we returned home. The trip home seems to take twice as long, as the water-fearing masses huddled under obnoxious oversized umbrellas seem completely oblivious to my need to get home quickly. The slow-walkers, who have no business in a city like New York, are especially loathsome in inclement weather. Those who lurk under awnings and construction canopies are the worst. How pathetic is one's existence if s/he has time to wait for the rain to taper? I am disgusted by this always, and annoyed on a day like today.
I barrel into our building and try to distract Michael Alexander as we head to the basement. I adamantly abhor the practice of leaving loads in the washers and dryers, and I often fantasize about dumping the dissenters' duds onto the floor, but I have only ever carefully placed an abuser's clothes into a cart. (Of course, I curse them under my breath, but I have never taken it out on their washables.) I am more upset than outraged to find one of my wet loads dumped onto the filthy floor. The machine from which they were ejected was not in use, so at least I am able to *quickly* rewash our sheets and towels.
Michael Alexander went down for a nap about 15 minuets ago, but already is tossing and turning. I feel guilty for stealing this time to write, but it might be my only respite in the next few days. Did I mention that Albuterol is a stimulant? I need to administer it three times a day, sanitizing the mouthpiece ahead of every use. He's waking. My 15 minutes are up. The way today's been going, putting away laundry will be my break. At least it's dry.
Michael Alexander's on the mend, albeit slowly, thanks to modern medicine. I just hope this Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day ends with a relaxing evening. And maybe even some sleep! And maybe I'll order Judith Viorst's children's classic. Even the worst days can spur the best literary memories.
Michael Alexander has been battling a cold for a couple days. Mike and I also have been stricken with a stomach flu of some sort, but I will spare you the details. Suffice it to say, it's been a tough few days, the last two with practically no sleep. Our normally happy son couldn't be consoled the last two nights, crying from pain that was clearly beyond the obvious sniffles and cough. I suspected an ear infection and called his doctor's office yesterday. It was booked solid all day, but the nurse offered me the last appointment for today.
I muster enough ambition to drag myself downstairs, lugging laundry, ahead of the appointment. It will be quick, I think, since we have a real appointment and aren't just walking in during the daily sick hour. We'll be back just in time to transfer the loads to dryers. Running through the torrential rain, we arrive at the doctor's office a few minutes early. Michael Alexander is dry thanks to his stroller rain cover. I am drenched, my trench coat rendered useless other than soaking up about five pounds from the deluge. My eyes irritated from the congestion and sinus pressure, I wear my glasses out -- a very rare, and very bad choice. I lock up the stroller and attempt to carry Michael Alexander inside without getting him soggy from my coat.
The office is busy, as expected, and the waiting room is especially cramped as I am the only solo parent to accompany a child. How do these people always get time off? My frustration is compounded when two families arrive with a nanny to assist the couple. What I wouldn't have given to have someone help me haul the car seat and take a taxi, or at least run in for the stroller lock while I watch Michael Alexander. My wet hair plastered to my face, my jeans and sneakers slick, I sit downstairs, feeling inferior among the cabbing couples. We wait nearly two hours. So much for getting back in time for the laundry. My success keeping Michael Alexander dry as I carried him into the office and back to the stroller is squashed when I find someone had removed the rain cover. It was a little windy, but not windy enough to topple the cover. Someone clearly unfastened the Velcro. I cry as I compose my rage.
Michael Alexander is diagnosed with a double ear infection and a slight bronchial infection. We use a nebulizer at the office, and the doctor prescribes one for home, along with Albuterol (a stimulant) and Amoxicillin. The doctor calls the trinity of treatment into Bigelow and I expect to pick up and pay upon arrival. "We got the call, yes," the pharmacist says. "We will fill it now." OK. I'm not sure why it hadn't already been filled, but I am assured it was now being filled "now." A half hour later, I am still soaked, my sore throat raw, my nose running and my head about to implode from the sinus pressure. I am struggling to soothe my son, who now needs a change and more milk. I ask about the order. "Oh, it will be a half hour." Another half hour? I was told it would be filled "now!" Bigelow, by the way, doesn't accept our insurance card, so it's an out-of-pocket payment for a wait that makes the chain stores seem charming. (Well, not really.) At this point, the only thing that keeps me from committing myself to Bellevue is my suffering son. I nearly storm out of the tony landmark chemist, but compose myself enough to raise my voice just enough to speed the process.
Michael Alexander smiles as soon I give him his first dose of antibiotics while I am instructed on how to assemble the nebulizer's tubes and dispense the medication. My son is easily comforted, as the fast-acting antibiotics take nearly immediate effect. It takes me a little longer to regain any semblance of sanity. I'm not quite there yet. More than three hours later, we hustle home, again pounded by rain. The rain, of course, started just before we left in the morning and stopped shortly after we returned home. The trip home seems to take twice as long, as the water-fearing masses huddled under obnoxious oversized umbrellas seem completely oblivious to my need to get home quickly. The slow-walkers, who have no business in a city like New York, are especially loathsome in inclement weather. Those who lurk under awnings and construction canopies are the worst. How pathetic is one's existence if s/he has time to wait for the rain to taper? I am disgusted by this always, and annoyed on a day like today.
I barrel into our building and try to distract Michael Alexander as we head to the basement. I adamantly abhor the practice of leaving loads in the washers and dryers, and I often fantasize about dumping the dissenters' duds onto the floor, but I have only ever carefully placed an abuser's clothes into a cart. (Of course, I curse them under my breath, but I have never taken it out on their washables.) I am more upset than outraged to find one of my wet loads dumped onto the filthy floor. The machine from which they were ejected was not in use, so at least I am able to *quickly* rewash our sheets and towels.
Michael Alexander went down for a nap about 15 minuets ago, but already is tossing and turning. I feel guilty for stealing this time to write, but it might be my only respite in the next few days. Did I mention that Albuterol is a stimulant? I need to administer it three times a day, sanitizing the mouthpiece ahead of every use. He's waking. My 15 minutes are up. The way today's been going, putting away laundry will be my break. At least it's dry.
Michael Alexander's on the mend, albeit slowly, thanks to modern medicine. I just hope this Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day ends with a relaxing evening. And maybe even some sleep! And maybe I'll order Judith Viorst's children's classic. Even the worst days can spur the best literary memories.
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