In the Fall of 2002, my junior year of college, I took the pursuit of Art History to Rome. As a Varsity Athlete, my collegiate sojourn abroad was a little more problematic than others; that is, there was a high probability that while away, I would lose my starting spot to some up and comer, leaving me benched upon my return. Whatever. I decided to gamble. I could smell the focaccia, gelato, and Italian leather from South Bend. Go ahead, duke it out on the field; I was going shopping. Internationally. And I was never coming back.
I had packed my lacrosse stick, a pocket sized training regimen, and the intention of staying in shape, which I took to the smelly, spandex ridden Italian gym promptly after unpacking. But a couple weeks into my love affair with Europe, I traded in sprints for long leisurely runs that stretched from Brunelleschi's arms to Constantine's feet. I translated weight lifting into carrying fresh vegetables home from the market. I put away my shot guns and took out Barolos and Chiantis. I found a host of unathletic friends who taught me to laugh in new ways. And I loved every second of it.
When November turned to December, I started to dread by return home. Never was suddenly now, and I wanted to avoid it at all costs.
After the holidays, I walked onto the turf for the first time in six months. A two hour practice, weight lifting session, and timed sprints later, I crawled off the field in tears and called home. I told my Dad that I was quitting. Then and there. I wasn't the same person anymore; I had matured; out of this and into something else. My Dad digested my garbled sentences, told me to give it two weeks, then passed the desperate message onto my brother. In so many words, my younger sibling told me I was idiot; he told me to get down off my four inch stiletto pedestal and back on the field.
I told myself I was doing it for them. So I would go back tomorrow. And the next day. The first couple weeks were tough. Our first game that season, when I warmed the bench after working so hard for my starting position the year before was even tougher. My body ached and my spirit was bruised. But bit by bit, I regained lost ground, won back my spot on the field, and found a rhythm and balance to my experience at Notre Dame that fit. I was still able to keep the identity that I had uncovered in Rome while riotously laughing in the locker room. In the end, I think I was a better student and a better lacrosse player, because I did both to the fullest. And to this day, I thank my Dad and brother for telling me to stick it out.
***
Each night, that first week back to work, I cried as I nursed Mary to sleep. I looked up at Peter with the most pathetic pout and asked how we could make it if I stayed home instead of working. We ran some numbers. We could make some concessions if that's really what I wanted to do. But just like my Dad and brother, he told me to give it two weeks.
Day by day, as Mary settled into her new routine, and as I settled into mine, life got easier and I was finally able to come up for air and dry my eyes. Mary seemed happy in her day care classroom. My mind was ecstatic to be exercising again. And our house knew nothing but love and joy when everyone was reunited under one roof at the end of the day.
Last week, I thought back on previous returns. And last Tuesday morning, I was prepared for tears. But they didn't fall. I went back to work almost ceremoniously. I waved goodbye to the kids as they were enveloped in love by our Mary Poppins, and drove to the office with a competitive charge pulsing through my body. I was ready to get back on the playing field, to help turn the business around, to take my starting position, and to kick Taco Bell's ass.
The past two weeks at work, despite the tenuous business environment, have been wonderful. (My colleagues are likely rolling their eyes.) And with each passing day, I confirmed something about myself. I'm a better mom as a working mom. And I'm a better employee because I'm a mother. I realized, more than ever, that I need the kind of balance in my life that comes from two intense regimens. There's no denying that there are days and weeks when it's really tough. Generally, I'm always exhausted. And there are certainly sacrifices that we, as a family, have to make. But honestly, everyone seems happier choosing their own adventure during the day, then coming home to tell their unique tales around the dinner table.
So I'm giving working moms the same advise I was given by working dads in the past. Give it two weeks. Or a little more, if you are still on the fence. Don't quit until you're absolutely sure that you can't stop the tears. Don't quit until you find a childcare solution that really works for you and your family. And don't quit until you've found a job that gives you the balance you need as a Mom. We need more Mothers in the workforce, working their ways to the top. You earned that spot after all. Don't let the pompous Freshman take it from you.
And let me just tell you; the weekends (oh the weekends); having work weeks, makes quitting time on Friday so. much. sweeter.
Lo.
