Teamwork

My husband and I recently had an argument about his concern that we weren't functioning as a team. This took me by surprise because I think we make an excellent team. But, it turns out that Jim and I just have different definitions of teamwork. I believe teamwork is when Jim does the laundry while I sit with a glass of wine and thumb through the Pottery Barn catalogue. Jim thinks teamwork is being equals, even under the most distressing of circumstances. Jim postulates that when Lowery is particularly needy/fussy/poopy/crappy, or when I'm particularly stressed/tired/needy/crappy, that I have a tendency to shut him out and attempt to tackle her/my problems on my own.

He is, of course, correct.

I guess to him, me throwing a pacifier against the kitchen wall because Lowery's been crying for 3 solid hours and I can't soothe her, is not his definition of acting like a team in a stressful moment. He's so picky.

But I heard him. And I took it to heart and decided that the next time Lowery was hysterical over teething or an ear infection, or the next time I was hysterical over a midterm or a presentation at work, I was going to attempt to act like a human (instead of a honey badger) and allow him to help me.

Let's check on my progress over this past weekend.

Friday: I awoke with a very upset stomach. Lowery was fussing in her highchair. Jim was scrambling to get to work on time. I knew it was going to be a rough one. Throughout the day my stomach hurt worse and worse. I assumed it was gas and that I was just one ass-blowing fart away from relief. But after consuming a horse-size dosage of Pepto and still not feeling any better, my suspicions of a bigger problem were mounting.

Since our kid was born, Jim and I have had a Friday night tradition: bottle of wine, Umberto's pizza delivered and an independent film. Though the independent film part has given way for more contemporary gems like Hot Tub Time Machine. As simple and predictable as it is, it's my favorite night of the week. And I was not going to let a little stomach pain ruin this one.

Jim came home with a bottle, I had the pizza on it's way and yet there I sat rocking back and forth in agony. When Jim noticed I wasn't drinking wine, he became noticeably worried. I brushed off his desire to take me to the emergency room (What would we do with the sleeping baby? Maybe the baby monitor signal would reach that far?) and honestly, I wasn't bleeding (bleeding is always how my father determines the severity of anything. Bleeding or bone through skin). But by midnight I was unable to walk and was curled up in a ball on the floor crying. It was my true belief that I was going to die.

Jim ran around the house locking doors, called his parents to come stay with Lowery and helped his convulsing wife get dressed. He sped to the hospital, checked me in and held me upright while I signed forms. Because of my pain level and where I indicated the pain was, they rushed me into triage and wouldn't allow Jim to come with me. After some urine, blood, ultrasounds and poking around, it was determined that I had an acute attack of my gallbladder which was, apparently, full of stones.

One morphine drip and three hours later we were headed back home. Jim put me into bed, sent his parents home and drove to the nearest 24-hour pharmacy to get my prescriptions filled. He got home and into bed at a quarter to 4 am. He then got up with Lowery at 6 am, changed her, fed her and played with her until I finally came to.

Saturday: Jim had been notified a few weeks ago that he had won an award for his writing in a magazine for which he frequently contributes. I had talked with my parents about keeping Lowery overnight. I'd arranged for his parents to come and take care of our dogs. I booked a hotel. I did the laundry, packed our bags and made sure his best suit was pressed.

So Saturday morning we drove Lowery to my parents (an hour away), dropped her off with a list of instructions (she was unusually fussy), and got back on the road to our destination (another 3 hours away). We arrived at the most charming of bed and breakfasts, and having had less than 2 hours sleep the night before (and me being wonderfully hopped up on pain meds) we crashed on the antique bed in a deep slumber for a few hours before the ceremony.

Despite a slight pain still radiating from my gallbladder, and the excessive dry mouth and headache that the meds gave me, I managed to class it up for his big night. I even shaved (knee down, but still). And off we went, to a three hour dinner and ceremony. He works very hard with his freelance writing. Conducting interviews at night and on lunch breaks, writing during weekends and attending editors meetings to pitch ideas. All the while, working his other full-time job editing another magazine, helping me around the house and with the child and still finding time for his book club and Mad Men. This man deserved this night. And several others. He took home a big award and I was the one in the back boisterously channeling Arsenio.

The long drive home the next morning began with debriefing the previous night's events. Where he'd like his journalism career to go in the next few years, what stories he'd like to do, what he likes about his assignments and the fact that we need a new cartridge for our printer at home. The latter part of the drive was about how soon I'd have to have surgery to remove my gallbladder, what time of the year would work best with my work, who would help with Lowery, recovery time, fear of dying, etc. And somewhere in the middle, when the song came on, we had an argument about what exactly is a Funky Cold Medina. I always thought it was a person, like a svengali. Jim insisted it was more like an aphrodisiac one puts in a drink. Now that I know the song is about a man roufieing a bunch of women, I'm over it.

But I digress.

Sunday: Lowery's fussiness over the last week came to a head Sunday night after we returned home. She was running a fever, was covered in a rash and screamed all night long. We assumed it was teething, or another ear infection. But after consulting with Dr. Google, we were fairly certain our child had a bad case of Hand Foot and Mouth Disease. Our regular pediatrician confirmed this on Monday. Said it can be a very painful and that she's probably had this since Thursday.

Jim and I may have different definitions of teamwork, but neither one is necessarily wrong. Jim thinks teamwork is us being as united and connected in our bad times as we are in our good ones. I think teamwork means that sometimes one is doing more when the other can't. But we didn't even consider our newest team member's perspective: let everyone get through their problems before troubling anyone with her own.

And I believe that makes her the most valuable player.

Having it All

I'm a enthusiast of Tina Fey. I respect her immensely because she uses her brains to drive her sex appeal, uses her sex appeal to drive her comedy and uses her comedy to make a point about women. Tina's overall thesis is: I may have thinning hair and adult acne, but it's only because I'm trying to have it all.

This has been something I've been struggling with for the past 9 months; having it all.

To me, having it all would be a fantastic, fantasy-like husband who would join me in a marriage of equals, a child or two, an extremely successful career, a rich social life and good hair.

And on paper, I can't say I'm lacking in any department. My husband is so unbelievably supportive, kind, loving and romantic that my friends roll their eyes when I talk about him. My daughter is beautiful, charming, silly and extremely bright. My career is starting to peak in a way I hadn't expected. My circle of friends consists of extremely talented, educated and generous people and, for the most part, if I have a flat iron, enough hair product and a day of zero humidity, some might consider my hair good.

That's on the surface. Let's break it down shall we?

My Husband

As a feminist, I can't believe how much I need a man. Or, at least this man. Because of my relationship, I've been able to accomplish a masters degree and (in another few months) a PhD, become a homeowner and a mother, and be truly in love. He does more than his share of the house work, is quick to change smelly diapers, pushes me out the door for some "me" time and brings home a nice bottle of wine every Friday night. So what's my issue?

I feel completely undeserving.

I don't suffer from a low self-esteem. I know I am worthy of love and kindness. But I often feel overwhelmed by the level of selflessness and compassion he shows. I believe our relationship is too often centered on my current crisis (usually school, motherhood, body image or what to fix for dinner). I worry constantly that I'm not for him what he is for me. Or that I think too much about my own problems and desires that I forget he has any.

To make it worse, he laughs this concern off. He thinks I'm an amazing spouse. And this is puzzling. Don't get me wrong, I make that man laugh. I make him chill out. I make him wear quality fabrics. So yeah, I've got stuff to offer, but it can't ever match what he brings to the relationship.

I remember feeling so uneasy on our honeymoon. No, no, not a UTI. Just a sick feeling the entire trip. I couldn't shake it. It felt kind of like homesickness. Or like the worry that you've left the iron on at home. But when we returned home I still felt it. A pit in my stomach. It wasn't worry that I had made a mistake, it wasn't regret for getting married 5 years younger than I promised myself I would. It was fear. Total fear for nearly 3 months of our married life. I was too happy. He was too great. I loved him too much. And I feared losing it.

While I've calmed my feelings of fear, or at least become numb to them, I still worry that in the end, I won't be what he needs. That I'll take and take and take from him and he'll wake up one day wondering where his life has gone.

Prince Charming comes with a price. Crippling inadequacy.

My Career

This first thing I will say is it frustrates the ever-living hell out of me that my close friends and family have not a clue what I do. This might be my fault. I don't bring it up or demand that they listen to me talk about my job. In fact, I actively try to avoid the topic because I fear I seem pretentious, or worse, boring. But what I do is important, challenging work. Or, it at least pays the day care bill. Either way, it's a big part of me.

I have three jobs. I am a professor at a regional university teaching classes on government and nonprofits. I am a researcher at another university where I conduct program evaluations for nonprofits so they can show their funders that they are effective (though sometimes they aren't). I'm a full time graduate student who's one measly dissertation away from a PhD focusing on government and nonprofit relations; specifically collaboration on policy process. Got it? Good. Because this shit's hard and I'm tired. I have hour long commutes, late nights, ulcers and endless edits that consume my life in the margins, when my child naps. So ask me about my research. Ask my about my students. Ask me about my dissertation. And I'll I brush it off because, honestly, I'd rather talk about you.

My Child

Can't say I don't adore her. Or that I'm not obsessed with her. I can barely stand her I love her so much. But she's simultaneously fascinating and boring right now. She's a baby that crawls everywhere, gets into everything and makes things that I want to do--like napping or reading People magazine--all the more difficult.

Is motherhood rewarding for me? Depends on the day. Some days we play and nap and eat and all is well and I've met her needs and a glimmer sparkles in me and I feel important and powerful and beautiful. Other days she's a handful, crying while I'm trying to collapse the stroller in the rain and I just honestly wish for my old life. Horrible? Settle down. You're fine.

I love 84% of motherhood. Watching her develop. Taking her interesting places.. Caring for her. Kissing her. Watching her sleep. Making her laugh. Feeding her. Tickling her. Reading to her. Planning for her future. Listening to her talk. Yeah, yeah, it's great.

But the other 16% is the part when you are so tired you want to punch the bathroom mirror. Being pulled in a hundred directions. Three jobs and only 2 days of childcare. Post partum depression. Not knowing why she's crying. Judgmental mothers. Not getting a shower every day. Struggling to find energy and opportunity for sex. Never looking pretty. Missing her while I'm at work. Missing work while I'm with her and constantly feeling two steps behind.

Social Life

The problem with having a great social life is finding the time and energy for a great social life. Do I use a babysitter for a romantic date night with my husband, or to go out with our favorite friends to a bar? And if we go to the bar, can we leave by 11? Because my child doesn't accommodate hangovers.

And my women friends who are mothers; they are my salvation. We need to get together and talk about our marriages and motherhood and why infant shoes sizes are an asinine system. But when we get together, we spend a majority of our time wrangling our children, cleaning up their spills, and rolling our eyes at their fussiness. Then we promise to get together later without the kids which we both know will never happen.

My Hair

Sigh...I can't figure out what to do. Long and blonde? Short and dark? I've been all over the color spectrum since my daughter's birth and I know the underlying issue is body image. When I was pregnant I had an epiphany. That if my body can actually grow a baby (there was a time we thought it couldn't) and birth it (which was also questionable) then I was going to love my body, as is, forever. But since pushing her out, the epiphany of pregnancy has been replaced by the frustration of stretch marks and a flabby belly . But when and how do you work out? I can take Lowery in the stroller and walk for as long as she doesn't get upset or crap her pants. I can try to cook a great, healthy meal at the end of a day in which I've packed in motherhood, class, teaching and a meeting, but then I would probably just stick my head in the oven with the roast.

So yeah. I think I'll dye my hair chestnut instead.

It's never been a question that I want it all. Or that I could get it all. But if I can truly have it all. Because having something means maintaining it. Which is time consuming.

And I've got a DVR full of 30 Rock to catch up on.