Happy 40th Birthday, Heather

Dear Heather,
Happy Birthday! I am thrilled and grateful to be here celebrating YOU!
I think you know that I stalked you on Facebook before you moved to Michigan. 🙂 I was so excited- and I will admit a little desperate- at the the possibility of a working mom friend in the area. Meeting people in suburbia can be very hard!
I was very nervous to meet you, though. Terrified actually. What if you hated me? What if our boys didn’t get along? You seemed (and are) very bright, energetic, kind, and very very involved in ACPA and our profession. So, I was a little afraid that I could not live up to your professional standards. Turns out you have no standards since we are now friends! Ha, ha!
I made up a picture of you in my mind. How I thought you would talk, the issues that you would care about, the way that you would look at me. I thought you would judge me. Because, isn’t that what women do sometimes? Most of the time? I don’t care about feminism, higher education, or professional organizations nearly the way you do. Turns out all of that was made up in my head. You have accepted me for who I am. You are passionate about things without forcing your views on others or making them feel like they must care about them the way you do. I think that is my favorite thing about you. Well that, and one time when I was over at your house I saw toaster crumbs on your counter and I was like, “Yes! She’s like MEEEEE!”
I remember meeting you in person for the first time. You, Ray and the boys were waiting for me and my boys at Patriarche Park. You were sitting on a bench. I remember being relieved that you were wearing jean shorts and Tevas. I remember our boys taking off immediately to go play. They played all afternoon. We wandered all over the park and at one point you taught my boys how to play horseshoes- horseshoes that you brought with you. Because, you are that kind of person. First, you own horseshoes and then you think to bring them to a play date because your new friends might want to learn how to throw them, too. Then, we all went to the MSU Dairy Store. It was the longest first playdate in history and it was great!
From that first meeting on we have connected and shared stories about motherhood, mothering boys, being wives and partners, and working mothers in higher education. I have truly treasured those conversations and am grateful for your thoughtfulness and your selfless friendship. I am thrilled beyond measure to call you friend and I look forward to many more happy years.
The attached picture is from when you and Kelley drove all the way to Detroit to support me in Listen to Your Mother. Thank you for that. It meant so much to me that you were there in the audience that afternoon. Actually, you watched the boys for me so I could go to the first rehearsal, so you were in my corner from the very beginning. And, that is just like you, too. You are loyal, kind, generous, and giving. Thank you for being my new friend.
Cheers to 40! Can’t wait to see where the years take us.
Love,
Monica
Thanks to my cheering section!

Thanks to my cheering section!

The missing piece in the “good mother” puzzle

Today I re-tweeted an article by Kathryn Sollmann, Peace Talks for the Mommy Wars in which she re-frames the “have it all” and “lean in” rhetoric into personal, economic terms. I love this article. I think her argument is spot-on. She writes, “At the end of the day, let’s accept that we’re all good mothers…The better mother is the one who faces reality, plans for life contingencies and makes certain that she tucks her family into a future that is financially secure and safe.” Amen.

I am fortunate to have a mentor (the same one since I was 22) who told me to always know what money is going in and what money is going out. She taught me that I am responsible for my financial future and no one else. That was/is good advice. Especially since at that time, a spouse wasn’t even on the horizon. I was young, educated, and on my own. I needed to know how to pay for my car, food, health insurance, plane tickets home to NJ, etc. etc. No one else was going to do it for me. I needed to know how to do these things. And, thank goodness, I do. God forbid I am ever widowed, I could still stay afloat. I have a job, my degrees, and the know-how to figure it out, or at least ask someone who does.

But this is only part of the “good mother” puzzle. An important one, but not the only one. Of course I need to tuck my children into a financial future. But I also want to tuck them into bed and into my heart.

I have read Lean In and I think Sandberg has some great points. For some people. I spent five years of my life as a PhD student investigating work-life “balance,” which I now call work-life negotiation, and wrote an entire dissertation about women student affairs administrators with young children and how they are trying to “have it all.” I read journal articles, tweet interesting links, have entire files of studies, pie charts, and bar graphs outlining ways that corporate America can help working families. All of these things are good and important. I have even blogged about my own “negotiation” strategies sometimes on this blog.

Today I had lunch with my husband who is also a working parent in higher education. It was a date in a college cafeteria because that is what fits our lives and our budgets right now. Sitting there over the beef and broccoli and roasted turkey, I realized something. All of these “have it all” articles are missing one important piece. The articles are prescriptive, one size fits all suggestions. I’m not a fan of being told what to do. I don’t know many mothers who are.

My contribution to the missing piece is this: the better mother is the one who does all she needs to do- personally, emotionally, financially, legally, geographically, etc., etc.- because it works for her. Because it works. for. her. Happy, focused mother= well-adjusted children and family.

The focus of modern rhetoric has been on macro changes. If more mothers lean in, then “the system” will change. (Maybe.) If legislators are made more aware of the burdens of working families, government will start to act in the best interests of the people. (Umm, sure.) Yes, these are important and necessary. Is it ridiculous that in 2008 I pumped breast milk in my own locked closet with paper on the windows because that was the only place I could go? Yes. Ridiculous. Is it insane that families with a sick child or elderly parent miss important meetings at work AND with their loved ones’ medical care team for fear that something will fall through the cracks? Of course. We absolutely need changes on the macro level. No question. But shaming SAHM and working mothers (or fathers) into leaning in, or wanting to have it all isn’t the answer.

I don’t have the answer. But, I have my own experience, I have my own answer. And what I have learned is this: forget everyone else and focus on what works for you. What worked for me as a working mother was to leave a Director level position and come home to a less than mid level advising position 10 minutes from my house. And guess what, NO ONE said boo to me. The person who was shaming me into thinking that I was derailing my own fast track train to having it all was me. I thought that giving up this job made me a hero or even better, a working mother martyr. Neither of these labels is true.

I gave up…nothing. And gained everything.

When I told people at my former institution that I was leaving because a job 5 miles from home opened up, every other woman (mother or not) in that office said this, “Oh, well, of course. That makes soo much sense. The little people in your life will be so happy.”

The little people in my life were indeed happy. Especially the three year old (who is now six and a giant!). When I was gone 60 hours/week (15 of which were spent driving the autobahn that is I-96 East in MI), he barely spoke to me. I saw my boys for 15 minutes each morning. I forced them to snuggle with me because I needed to leave the house with their morning smell still on my shirt. When I came home at 530pm (if I was lucky), the three year old wouldn’t speak to me. Sometimes he would open up and start talking to me over dinner. Sometimes he never spoke to me; he avoided my loving, hopeful eyes. This was his little three year old way of telling me that he resented me being away for so long. I resented it, too, but was constantly torn between wanting to “have it all” by using the degree I had just spent five long years earning, and wanting to be a “good mother.”

At the time, a fellow working mother told me that my son’s not speaking to me when I came home was about him and not me. He was three years old. Maybe that is how she would have approached the same situation. But for me, that was not working. I was actually starting to get really good at my job when I left it. But I was not the kind of mother I wanted to be. I missed everything- drop-off, pick-up, class trips, laughing at the breakfast table. And, I missed them. I missed them. Much of the modern talk is about the children. How are the children impacted by a parent’s work-outside-the-home status? What are the differences between children in daycare and those not? The good news: there is no difference.

What I think is missing from this rhetoric is the other side. The mother’s side. My side. I saw very little of myself in all of these articles screaming at me to keep my fast track job. I missed my children and my husband. I needed them. I missed them so much I ached. Eventually the three year old would have been fine. But I am not sure that I would have been fine. I was tired all the time. I was stressed out from driving. I started clenching my jaw at night (and now need a bite guard which I am getting tomorrow).

I tried the stay-at-home mom thing, too. Twice. Hated it. I was not good at it. I would be a horrible stay-at-home mom. I was also a horrible “have it all” mom.

For now, I am a mid-life, mid-career, mid-western mom who does not have it all. But, I am pretty darn close. I am happy. My boys are happy. I go to work and I help people. I help students be better versions of themselves and I love it. Turns out, my current position pays even more than my last one and I am no longer spending money commuting, so double bonus. Tucking them and myself into that financial future.

My real legacy, my “having it all” is my sons. They are the micro changes that will go out into the world and make macro differences. If that happens, when that happens, then I really will have it all.

That same mentor who taught me to take charge of my financial future also told me once, “your life right now is not your life forever.” Preach.

Making New Memories, Five Years After

My #oneword2014 is risk. I took a huge personal risk by auditioning for the first-ever #MetroDetroit Listen to Your Mother show. I was hesitant to audition with a piece about childhood cancer. I was nervous that it was too serious, too sad. Our story is serious and sad. But it’s true and real. Our journey changed who I am and how I see myself as a mother. That is what LTYM is all about. Stories by, of, and about motherhood.

My risk paid off- I was accepted as a castmember and on May 4, 2014 I had the amazing honor and privilege of standing center stage and sharing my story. LTYM was one of the best experiences of my life. It helped me trust other women and other mothers. It helped me remember that there are good and kind people who will hold you when you need it. And, it gave me a boost of confidence as a writer.

Thank you to my amazing husband Sean for driving 85+ mph from MSU graduation to make it in time.

Thanks, Hubs!

Thanks, Hubs!

And thank you to my friends Heather and Kelley for cheering me on.

Thanks to my cheering section!

Thanks to my cheering section!

The official LTYM You-Tube videos will post later this summer. Eek! Until then, this is the full text of my piece. Thank you for reading.

Making New Memories, Five Years After

“On December 12, 2008, our three year old son Luke was diagnosed with stage four cancer and our lives changed forever.

Many of my memories of diagnosis day are crystal clear:

the emergency ultrasound and MRI,

the ugly green sweater I was wearing,

meeting the oncology fellow who would be with us throughout Luke’s 15 months of treatment.

While my husband Sean played in the waiting room with Luke,

I somehow managed to sign paperwork giving strangers permission to pump my son full of poison,

in the hopes that the chemo would kill the rapidly growing cells inside his little body.

I remember holding Sean’s hand as he drove us home in the dark

and we wept in the deafening silence.

December 12, 2013 marked five years since our son’s cancer diagnosis. Like every year, it was a hard day. I just could not pull myself out of being angry and bitter.

The gray skies and snow on the ground are triggers.

The winter air in Michigan always smells the same

empty and raw.

Sean and I called each other a few times during the day. Family sent text messages saying they were thinking of us and sending good wishes.

Later that same night, Luke and his classmates performed “Betsy Ross and the First American Flag.”

Eighty-four second graders had been rehearsing since the second week of school. There was singing, dancing, and historical lessons about Betsy’s bravery and courage. Apparently, it was quite a coup to make a new flag that represented the new world!

Every single second grader had a speaking part and when Luke came up to the microphone to talk about Betsy buying blue ribbon for her flag, I thought my heart was going to leap out of my chest.

I was bursting with pride.

Surely the mom next to me could hear my heart pounding and see my tears. I wonder if she was thinking, “Who is this woman? What an odd thing to be crying about! Betsy Ross isn’t really tear-worthy!”

As I was sitting there trying to film the square dancing and the Virginia reel, a different movie played in my mind. Snippets of the last five years kept flashing before me.

In the movies, photo montages are usually round and sepia.

Childhood cancer memories are jarring and unsettling.

I remember midnight trips to the ER, fevers, watching my baby lose his curly hair, MRIs and X-rays, bacterial infections, the list goes on and on and on.

I wanted everything to pause,

for the world to stop spinning for Just. One. Moment.

so that everyone in that smelly grade school gym could appreciate my skinny, angular boy and his fight against the odds.

I wanted to stand up and shout,

Stop!

Wait!

Do you see that boy in the middle?

That’s my son! My baby.

He is a CANCER survivor!

He is a cancer SURVIVOR!

You have no idea what he has been through! You have no idea how special this moment is!

As Luke’s mother, I know his beginning, his past, and our hopes for his future.

The audience could only see his present.

The farther out Luke gets from diagnosis and treatment, the less he remembers. I am learning that this is a good thing

and how it should be.

His eight year old mind and body have been through more than enough. If he copes by choosing what memories to keep, that is fine.

I will be his memory.

I will always have one eye on the past, remembering all he has endured and another eye on the future, hoping and praying that he continues to get good news.

Luke’s radiation oncologist once told me, “Your hopes and dreams for him aren’t gone. They’re just different.”

Truer words were never spoken.

December 12th will always, always be the day that our son was diagnosed with cancer.

But, it can also be one of the days that he moved on, that he sang and danced with his classmates,

just like an eight year old should.”