My Invisible Paycheck

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.

Frankenbelly and Nothing Matters

I first set out to write about Frankenbelly a week ago. It was going to be a self-deprecating yet honest post about coping after a C-section. I had started writing last Saturday before heading to the gym. I was feeling great. Happy, relaxed and virtually pain free thanks to a course of corticosteroid Methylprednisolone used to reduce inflammation and rigorous physical therapy. I was so excited to go to chisel (Crunch's term for weight training) class. Saturdays are especially luxurious, as Mike and I switch off going to the gym during the morning and afternoon so I don't have to rush through my PT back strengthening exercises before and after my workout. But lately Saturdays at the Crunch on Lafayette have become a little stressful. It's a popular class that requires you to get there early, sign up an hour before class, get a wristband and set up your space as soon as the room's free. I choose the same spot, and for the last two months or so have been doing extra lower back strengthening in the room before class. Every Saturday, people (usually newbies on a Groupon promotion or guest pass) come in with no sense of personal space and set up there equipment without staggering so as to prevent a collision of arms during the chest set. This seems obvious to me, yet every week at least a dozen new people walk in minutes before the start of class without any regard for those of us who have arrive early to secure our spots, taking just enough room to extend our arms and legs. Last Saturday there was an especially toxic tone in the basement room. An older woman regular who never speaks to anyone else attacked a young woman who was very polite and set up her equipment with regard for her neighbors. The old woman muttered about how the young woman was too close to her space. She was not. When the young woman didn't respond to the old woman's passive aggressive ramblings, the regular turned her head Exorcist style and shouted, "You're a God-damned bitch!" Well, then. What a way to set the mood!

I smiled at the young woman and she smiled back. The old woman continued to balk and bitch throughout the class. I did my best to block her out, focusing on proper form for my PT routine. Just as I was coming up from a back extension, another regular, a retired schoolteacher who is usually sweet, approached me. "Welcome back!" she said. Back from what? I am at the gym at least six days a week, worked out until two days before labor and went back five weeks after my C-section. I've been back for nearly six months! Welcome back? She continued, "So, did you have the baby?" I just stared, still mid-exercise. "Did you have the baby?" she repeated. When I still didn't reply, she said, "I assume you had the baby." I won't tell you what I wanted to say ... In my mind, the censored version was laced with sarcasm and went something like this: "No. I'm nearly 16 months pregnant now! Can you believe it?" Even as she realized I was offended, she didn't offer an apology. She just went on about "welcoming" me back. Back to the class I've been attending every week (save for a weekend in LA) for the last six months! I tried to brush it off. I couldn't. She made it nearly impossible, as she spent the full hour yapping with another regular, a psychotherapist, about how she didn't know why I "seemed offended." The previous week, the psychotherapist walked into the room minutes before class screeching about how all the weights had been taken. I don't know who deserves more sympathy, the psychotherapist's patients or the retired schoolteacher's former students.

I know it sounds like petty narcissism, even pathetic, but it ruined the rest of my workout. Daily workouts are my only time away from the baby. It is my time. The time when I feel strong and healthy, even if I am still fat. Fat, yes, but do I really look 16 months pregnant? Really? I spin faster and with more resistance than anyone else in any class. I lift more weight than anyone else in the classes, even the 6'4" broad-shouldered men. (Remember, Mike and I can't take the same classes now, but if he were still there, he'd be the only one to match or outlift me.) Despite my daily sweatfests, I haven't shed the post-baby weight and the scale hasn't budged in months. It is frustrating and the source of my insecurity. My doctor says I can't blame myself, as I am afflicted with Hashimoto's Disease, a form of autoimmune hypothyroidism which essentially stalls the metabolism. Still, I work out very hard and work harder to maintain a positive self-image. Last Saturday, I was feeling confident until the retired schoolteacher shattered my self-esteem. I know it's not her fault, but I was so angry after last Saturday's class that I started writing this post again, referring to her as Baba Yaga. With her frizzy hair and short stature, she evokes the fearsome witch of Russian folklore.

I'm over the Baba Yaga incident, though I'm planning to switch my Saturday workout routine even though I like the class itself. It's just not worth the catty crapfest. I've still got to explain Frankenbelly. The number on the scale and the fact that my pre-preggo jeans (or anything else with a zipper below the waist) doesn't fit are painful enough. But having a tiny scar topped with a flap of flesh that won't whittle away is the worst. Nobody warned me about this post C-section trauma. As I mentioned before, I was adamant about avoiding a C-section and nearly devastated when after full labor, I was told it was the only way my son would survive. The surgery itself is simple. The separation from the baby for the few minutes of post-op seems like an eternity. The pain is easily managed. But the birth and girth of Frankenbelly is frightening. I'd never even heard the terms "mother's apron" and "C-flap" until I Googled them post-op. A Google search for mother's apron gets about 137,000 results, so I know I'm not alone. But that doesn't make coping with this any easier. My upper abs are nearly as strong as before the baby was born, but my lower abs, sliced and diced during Michael Alexander's delivery, are monstrous. I had planned to make light of Frankenbelly before last Saturday's ego blow. But my self-pity was bloated by Baba Yaga's callous comments.

I'm trying really hard to look past Frankenbelly. I have the most beautiful, strong, healthy son, who is certainly worth any expense. But the physical challenges just make it harder to accept the other everyday struggles that come with motherhood. The constant feeling that you're not doing enough by "just" taking care of your baby. I remind myself that I do other things. I make dinner from Farmer's Market vegetables and organic proteins and grains nearly every day. I am good at laundry. I know because the Maytag repairman in the laundry room yesterday told me so. Ha! I write a column and am actively pursuing more freelance work. Then there's what I do best: take care of my son! Clearly, I am doing a good job, as anyone who's met him would attest. Still, there's that absurd notion that even I can't overcome. It's not a constant, but it creeps in every so often. The fear that I do nothing, or nothing that matters. Truth be told, if raising a baby is nothing, then I am proud to say that nothing matters. Nothing matters more. Frankenbelly be damned.

Getting on my nerves

I was diagnosed with scoliosis and a degenerated spine six years ago when I went in for a patella tendon overuse injury while marathon training. I've long had pain in my left lumbar spine, but like with my other chronic pain (mostly in my neck and shoulders), I ignored it for years assuming everyone deals with some constant discomfort. The 2006 knee injury was caused by the scoliosis. The scoliosis diagnosis itself isn't a big deal, it's the degenerated spine part that's cause for concern and ceasing certain activities, like running for fear of far greater injury. Under a doctor's care, I trained for and ran the 2006 marathon, but then quit running for the most part. It's been a major frustration, especially battling post-preggo weight, to not run daily. I spin nearly every day and stair climb and use the boring elliptical on occasion, but no amount of cardio, no matter how intense, can burn enough calories to do more than maintain my metabolically-challenged body's weight. Surprisingly, my back pain didn't get worse while I was pregnant. I did a lot of core strengthening, holding planks and bridges for what seemed like hours a day, and did extra exercises targeting the lower back. While I worked out, even spun, until two days before I went into labor, I did pare down the intensity of cardio and cut back on heavy lifting. That may be why I made it through 9 months without more severe pain. My left lumbar pain has become unbearable lately. There's a constant dull pain which I long ago accepted as the norm for my body, but the periodic sharp pains that intensify the chronic, dull pain recently became too much too ignore. I saw a new doctor today. Based on a physical exam, she believes I either have nerve damage or a slipped disk. I go for a nerve exam a week from tomorrow and start my latest round of physical therapy on Monday. If there's no sign of nerve damage, I go for an MRI. I hope this can be treated without surgery. The best part about this office is the doctor, who is mom to a 6 1/2-month-old son, welcomes my bringing Michael Alexander to PT as well as office visits. A native of Ukraine, she spoke to my little зайчик zaitchick (bunny) in Russian. I'm optimistic about the PT, as the doctor promised the clinic treats athletes. I had one positive PT experience at a clinic run by a former (American) football player who didn't waste my time with exercises for sissies. Every other physical therapist I tried taught simple exercises assuming the patient is a weak, lazy sloth. Needless to say, those experiences got on my nerves. Backing away from the computer for now. Michael Alexander wants more organic apples.

Morning Shorts

Mike is meeting a former colleague after work, so he got up extra early, before 5 a.m., allowing us both to work out before he left for the office. I had expected a painful, bitter chill when I headed to the gym for 6:30 spin, but experienced a refreshing, crisp, clear morning air that perked me right up. I've always felt there was something especially gratifying about working out before the sun comes up, which has been Mike's ritual since Michael Alexander was born. I go the gym when he gets home from work. On weekdays, it's my only time away from my beautiful son, so I'm dressed and ready to go when Mike comes home. I have to rush to sign up for a 6:45 spin class, bang out my ab work and then come home to finish making dinner. (Mike loves to make dinner, too, but it's easier for me to do it most weekdays. He was a saint when I was sick last week, making me homemade organic chicken soup loaded with veggies.) Going to the gym in the morning allows you to luxuriate. This morning was pure bliss. Larry led us through a solid 55 minutes of heavy climbs and sprints through resistance. Often morning classes aren't as challenging as evening ones, but this is a definite exception. When Mike and I first started taking Larry's classes; we aimed for two workouts a day before and during my pregnancy, but the early morning routine gave us a pass if something came up after work. I didn't like Larry at first. He's very intense, frenetic and strange. Now that I understand, and relate to, his passionate approach, I consider him one of the best. He's hilarious and totally dedicated. He talks through class, which he starts a good 7 minutes ahead of schedule, even as he pushes as hard as the participants. He works downtown, at the court, district, I think, and gets up in the middle of the night to make it to Union Square from faraway New Jersey. "15 more seconds of intensity. 15 more seconds of insanity," are among his mantras as he leads us through the "last 80 seconds" of a sprint through heavy resistance. What really made my day was when Larry recalled a class he took at another gym, somewhere in Jersey. "There was this bench outside the room, and people would get there 20 minutes early and drink coffee!" he wailed. "They sat there drinking coffee when they could be working out! It made me crazy." Aaah! That's my Larry! That is exactly the kind of slothful behavior that pisses me off, and Larry's (over)sharing was what me realize why today was a super great morning. Nobody comes to spin class, or the gym for that matter, when it opens at 5 a.m., or even for a 6:30 spin class, unless they are hardcore. In the evenings, there are kickass classes, but a majority of the attendees (as many aren't there in spirit) give about 20% at best. When the instructor says "Give me about a 5-6 (in resistance). A flat row." On most bikes at the downtown Crunches, a 5 or 6 is generally 17 turns. After that, you're starting to climb. While I respect the naturally lean people who come to the gym at all, I loathe all the lazies and wish they'd stay away from my coveted classes and avoid insulting with beloved instructors with their lack of effort or enthusiasm. Aaah, thank you Larry, and, of course, thank you, Mike, for a lovely morning! I am tired, but as zen as I get. Babies crying. Must run. I love writing without paragraph breaks or self-editing. Thanks, Michael Alexander, for demanding my attention.

Gold's Standards and Train Wrecks

Michael Alexander and I were in Massachusetts for a few days last week, visiting with his Babushka, Auntie Shurinka and Uncle Johnny, and attending a memorial service for a dear friend's mother who died of cancer. My Mom suggested we take Amtrak to Springfield instead of Metro-North for a more luxurious ride. True the soft bucket seats are nicer than the commuter rail's communal rows, but that's if you can get one. The Vermonter was about half full when it arrived in Penn Station from Washington, and there was one empty seat in each row. The Vermonter is clearly the Loner Express. Lugging Little Mikey is his car seat along with a heavy suitcase, diaper bag and purse, I made my way to end of the last car, finding a single empty seat in each row. Not a single person offered to share a seat with another passenger so we could have a row. Placing Little Mikey on the ground, I asked the woman sitting alone in the last row if she'd mind sharing a seat with another passenger so I could secure his car seat, as safely as possible, in a seat next to mine. Clad in high-waisted, stone-washed, baggy jeans and a white acrylic turtleneck, the Walmartian looked up and said, "No, my book is here," pointing to a tattered 'Intro to French' paperback. Dismayed, I said, "You won't give up a seat for my infant son so you can place your book there?" "I have a friend coming," she quipped. Little surprise this woman traveled the whole way sans friend, sprawling out across both seats, napping and kicking the seats we finally acquired in front of her when she wasn't gabbing on her relic of a cell phone with her brother in Bellows Falls (population 3,000), clearly her only companion on her sad life voyage. At about 45, this bumpkin who, according to a chat with bro, was born, bred and will croak in this vile village, was among the youngest travelers on this train to nowhere _ slow. One of the only other passengers who was clearly not headed to Vermont, agreed to share a seat with someone else so I could care for my baby. At least the train was on time, a major feat for Amtrak, which over the last eight years has abandoned any commitment to customer service. Michael Alexander and I were both battling colds when we arrived in Springfield, and have since passed the illness on to my immune-challenged Mom. The best remedy for near-pneumonia, along with a powerful Z-pack and codeine for sleeping, is working out to exhaustion. On Friday I headed to the Gold's Gym in West Springfield, a sort of anti-Crunch where sexuality is repressed at all costs. Great facility for lifting heavy (my favorite) and cardio (since so few use the machines). There are four standard patrons at this Gold's. The high school and higher-ed jocks, who shun steroids in favor of a lean physique, command the weight machines, speaking quietly and keeping to themselves. As I warmed up with 45 minutes on the stair climber and elliptical, two guys plunked on ab machines like they were Barcaloungers kept looking over without burning a calorie. "I don't do cardio," the older one said. "It's not good for you." "I'm with you," the younger one agreed. "Yeah," the older one added, "My cousin and another guy I know died from doing cardio." This pair represents the Guns and Guts contingent at Gold's, the men of all demographics who build up bi's and tri's and chest and shoulders, but couldn't hold plank for 10 seconds or run a mile. The third, and most interesting or quintessentially Gold's group, are the roid-raging power lifters. Awesomeness to the nth degree. The fourth standard, of course, are the women; all four of us including me. I believe the one 89-pound bluehair walking a 22-minute mile on a treadmill was straight. And for the record, even with a cold, I lifted about three times as heavy as the woman with the closest crop. Aaah, Gold's, I will be back when I return to Massachusetts, a far, far way from Lafayette Crunch.