IV

I found it weird at the time, but I failed to say anything. It might even be standard procedure. When the nurse came to put in the IV, I was just happy to be lying down and working on breathing through contractions. But in all my medical history I've never had an IV put on the side of my wrist. I've had one on the underside of my wrist, one in the top of my hand, inside of my elbow, and even my foot. But never on the wrist bone.

And so, 15 months after giving birth, I'm not surprised that the wound, in which the IV was once oddly placed, has still not healed. It's a sore that is raised and red. Sometimes it gets swollen and painful. Sometimes it dries up and flakes off. There are times I get frustrated enough to go buy expensive ointments and waterproof Band-Aids. Other times I pick at it mercilessly. But most of the time I just ignore it.

But in the past 15 months, the sore on my wrist is the least of my problems. Because there is, in fact, a long list of my problems and my wrist is second to the bottom. Stretch marks and belly flab are dead last.

Staying at home with my child, however, is right at the top.

When professional women ask if I'm a stay-at-home mom, I usually respond, "No, I work part-time." If a stay-at-home mom asks if I work outside the home, I usually respond, "Only twice a week. I'm with my child the rest of the time." And both sets of women respond the same way, "Oh, you have the best of both worlds!"

Nope, bitches. I've got the worst. 

Because I'm still a member of a professional world, I hold myself to a pretty high standard professionally. That is to say that I try to curb my vulgar mouth at work, and I almost always wear underwear. I also go so far as to pretend to others that I don't have a child. Not that I don't brag about her, wallpaper my office with her pictures and put my hand to my chest every time someone even mentions her name. But if someone schedules a meeting in which several people are invited, I pretend that I'm open and available at all times. What child?

And though I have full day, day care on Tuesdays and Thursdays, most every single meeting I've been to in the past 15 months has been on a Monday, Wednesday or Friday. So I scramble. I call my mother-in-law, whose help I cannot do without, despite the new dynamic it creates. I check with my own mother to see if she's able to drive an hour to help me. I call a neighbor. Jim takes a personal day. And though I haven't tried this yet, I still can't see a good reason why I can't leave her in the crib with a sleeve of crackers and a sippy cup.

Further, I have a variety of professional friends who like to meet up for lunches. And there is nothing more wonderful in the professional world than work-day lunches. But if I meet them on days that I actually get to go into work, then that takes up an hour of the very few precious hours I have to sit at a computer and work without a tantrum over green beans happening somewhere in the periphery. But if I schedule lunches on MWF, then I'm dragging along an active, loud toddler and chasing her around a crum-riddled restaurant, rather than enjoying any of the majesty of work-a-day noon.

My work and school are truly important and thrilling parts of who I am and yet it is reduced to two days a week. And even those days are usually consumed with squeezed-in dentist appointments and haircuts. I also teach some time in there, which involves an hour commute. So yes, my time in my chair in my office is pathetically small.

But that's my work life.

That's not the problem. Never once have I thought that giving up my career or dropping out of school would make it all better. Yes, school and work are stressful, but it's good stress. Anything that makes you a better, more knowledgable, more well-rounded person isn't really stress anyhow. It's just growing pains.

But this important part of my life is completely overshadowed by the way in which I spend most of my time: raising a child. These are the hard days. The exhausting days. Days that I'm okay with saying I like the least. In fact, if I am super honest, I actually hate staying home with my child.

Settle down. I'll redeem myself in a bit.

Staying home with my child is a choice. In fact, my husband and I planned to get pregnant when we did because of the flexibility of my working hours and classes. We knew it would be tough, but we agreed it was the right time for us. We knew we could spend just a little money to get a couple of days of day care so that I could work two long days to keep up with everything, while still getting oodles of time to care for and raise our child.

Oh, we mice and men.

I've had some insane pressures on myself with motherhood. Breastfeeding. Baby food making. Cloth diapering. Staying at home. And with most of them I've been able to recognize when things weren't working, or when to adjust certain expectations.

Breastfeeding: Worst experience of my life. Once I realized I was doing it more for me than for my daughter, I gave it up. And never looked back.

Baby food making: Enjoyed buying $5 organic pears, steaming them, pureeing them, dividing them into little portioned cups, freezing them, thawing them, warming them, spooning some up for Lowery only to have her spit them all down her shirt. Then when I realized stores sold little packs of organic baby food (with veggies and fruits I couldn't pick out of a line up), I said "F**k you, Magic Bullet," and bought enough pouches of mushy rutabaga to last through her adolescence.

Cloth diapering: I have friends who are pretty avid about this. I wanted to do it purely for environmental reasons, not for any concern of cost or fear of chemicals touching Lowery's precious ass. But there are all these web pages and posts on facebook that say things like "I love cloth diapering!" What the hell? No one loves diapering, whether you throw it in a trash can or throw it in a laundry basket. They are all full of shit. Now, I can say I like the cloth diapers. They are soft, and cute and I had my kid run around in those and not much else during the summer as they are also good in the pool. But by no means do we cloth diaper full time. We wash a load, use up that load and then use disposable until we get around to doing laundry again. Not unlike our own underwear.

Staying at home: There are numerous studies out there that show women with children who work are significantly happier than those who stay at home. Yeah, no shit. Other studies suggest that taking time off to raise children grossly affects women's earning potential in the job market. And even more studies try, but can't, point to any significant differences between children of stay-at-homers and day-care babies. Society, of course, also likes to weigh in. If you stay at home full time, you must not have any professional ambition. If you work full time, you must not love your children.

Ah, to have a penis. Even if only for a day.

Women who stay at home full time (all five days and weekends) have my universal support and respect. I would imagine they could also use a drink. I understand why people always say, "I don't know how they do it," about stay-at-home mothers. But I suppose my question is not how but why they do it.

For starters, when I take my child to day care (they prefer we call it "school"), she gets a lot of time with other children, other adults, lots of different toys, reading, outdoor activities, art, music, made-from-scratch kosher meals, a solid nap and a couple of good BMs. When I pick her up she's happy, her daily progress sheet gushes about her day and how sweet and independent and talkative she is, and when we get in the car, my child is a song bird of happiness. Babbling all the way home about her day.

When she's with me, I fight to get a shower. She gets bored easily. She whines a lot. She won't touch things I fix for lunch. And she throws herself on the floor in a tantrum over not being able to play with the Wii remote.

She does get to spend time with me, though. Wrestling on the floor. Swinging at the park. Reading the same three books over and over and over. Walking around the mall. Running to the bank. Watching me work at a computer. Watching me unload the dishwasher. Watching me poop. And looking for the Wii remote.

And at the end of the day, I'm so physically and emotionally exhausted that I just don't want to look at her any more. I want to hand her to Jim, go in the bedroom and be by myself for 20 minutes. And the next day, when she goes to daycare, I'm sad we aren't together.

This isn't to say I don't have some really great times with my child while I'm home with her. I get all the kisses and hugs and giggles I want. I truly enjoy taking her places because store clerks and strangers seem in awe of her and that makes me swell with pride. I've never missed a major milestone, and I've been able to trace most of her words, mannerisms or silly quirks back to something I've taught her.

It makes no logical sense to me that I can love a person as much as I love my child, and yet need some time away from her. But I suppose it makes emotional sense. I mean, it's no secret I adore wine but even I know the dangers of overindulgence.

I feel silly having such an overwhelming problem with such a simple solution. Jim has said, for the past 13 months, that if ever we need to increase Lowery's days at day care we can. And every time he says this (which has been every week since she was born) I snap at him for implying that I'm not loving my time at home with our daughter.

But I'm not.

And yet getting to the point of making the call, closing the door on all other options, has been debilitating. In the battle between Jim and me in which I argued to keep her days at day care as minimal as possible, I've realized how much I value my time with my daughter. How much I fought for it. Even if I do hate some of that time, I still value it. And I value her. I adore her. I respect her. I want us to be bonded and close and for her to see me as a positive, loving, supportive mother. But it's also important to me that she see my ambition, my work ethic, my drive and my life outside of her.

So if full time day care is the solution, so be it.

I know Lowery will thrive. And I will too. This might even allow me to concentrate on the other problems on my list. And if I can address those, I'd be cooking more meals, getting more sleep, exercising more, reading more books, crying less and enjoying life to a greater degree.

And as I look at the sore on my wrist right now, my eyes seem to be playing tricks on me.

Because it almost looks like it's starting to heal.