From Here to Autonomy

Pregnancy Journal, Week 36: Working with my feet up

A friend of mine called me from New York. We talked for a while about his new job--I may be one of the few people who enjoys discussing with my friends the intricacies of their day to day work.

He asked me, so how are you?

I had to preface my response with a disclaimer,

"Nothing's wrong," I said. "But things are different." My friend probed to determine if I was unhappy.

"Nope," I said. "I'm just getting used to this change." I felt inarticulate, like when I had nightmares as a kid and my mom came into my room and asked me what I was afraid of, and I didn't know. One time I told her, "I'm feeling something skinny; a skinny string." I still get the sensation, but I don't know what it means.

By "change" I think I mean all that has shifted since becoming pregnant. For years I've been told about how the focus of energy shifts when you become a parent. I've held off on my decision to have children knowing this shift occurs. 

But even knowing that I am supposed to slow the centrifugal force that has tied me to a grinding schedule for so long, I find that I still give myself a spin or two to stay in motion, even during times of physical exhaustion. I wonder if I do this out of habit; being in motion is all that I know. Or because the slowdown scares me; all this momentum, what would it take to start up again? What if I fall in love with slow? What if slow feels like a skinny string?

A trusted friend--a powerhouse, even to other powerhouses--tells me that her desire to work, to achieve, didn't change when she had her son, but her reason for working did.

"I did everything because of him," she said.

Some might bristle at that thought, especially since working women are encouraged to have their careers "for themselves". But some of us have been working "for ourselves" for a very, very long time, at the risk of having no perspective and losing the meaning behind what we do. For me, the thought of working for someone else is liberating; it opens possibilities. It bends the rules I set in my mind of the way work must be.

Still, the rules run deep. My business partner said to me last week that if I may not want to bother commuting these last few weeks before the baby is born. Makes sense: an hour-long commute (on a good day) is hardly safe or desirable should I go into labor a few weeks early. After five years of working together (two of those virtually) she knows the work will get done anywhere. But I struggle to take her up on her suggestion. I've always valued physical, tangible presence. Presence is being in motion.

Another co-worker suggested that I use the couch she has in her cube--something she's integrated into her space for extreme back issues. I thanked her and wondered, when would I think to put my feet up? My first job out of college, when my boss traveled I'd sneak cat naps in her office. Why was it so much easier to acknowledge exhaustion when I was 21?

At the BlogHer conference I promised my colleagues and husband that I would put my feet up regularly. It took my husband physically guiding me back to my hotel room 14 hours after I started the day to do what I'd promised. As I sat there, propped by pillows, feet up against the wall, tired and restless, I lamented that it was still so early--I was leaving first thing in the morning and still hadn't seen or done everything I'd wanted to do.

I am hardly a sadomasochist or born with more energy than others. I just don't know otherwise. I suppose I will learn. And I will learn how to channel that energy where it needs to go. And rather than look upon these offers of support suspiciously, I will learn to put my feet up and note that there are moments that we work and moments that we work FOR.

And that skinny string that keeps us tethered to a life in which we've done very well won't break.

BlogHer '10: My first conference as a working mother

I was chatting with my BlogHer co-panelists last week about our panel: Where's the Line or the Lie: Storytelling, Memoir and Poetic License. I find that I often moderate these more personal-blogging-type sessions at BlogHer, because I started as an identity blogger. I have a natural affinity with those who put it all out there, even if that has not been my reality for five years, since BlogHer began.

I realized, hot damn, I have not posted to this blog in over a month. That's not very bloggy of me. And I and my colleagues will be running a conference built by and for bloggers. I find myself asking, Jory, WTF? Are you still an identity blogger? Do you still see life through the lens of what would make a compelling blog post? The truthful answer is, sometimes.

Sure I've been busy--everybody's busy. Though I must confess the recent disadvantage of pregnancy. I don't cram things in my day anymore, like a blog post or an extra call. I do what's directly in front of my face, get the immediate priorities done, and then call it a day. This has become a physical necessity, one I knew would manifest by my third trimester but chose to not think about...until I noticed things, like how breathless I get when I'm speaking, and how forgetful, and that it's been a month since my last post.

There's a lot of withheld information in my unwritten posts about women, work, and family making; I've thought about this in light of my BlogHer session. Before I was pregnant, I read voraciously about women raising kids and building careers. The only impediment to achieving in both realms, I thought, were others' preconceived notions about women and work--the assumption that once we procreate we're no longer interested in pursuing our careers.

Clearly that's not the case--I know too many women who have achieved even more post-children than pre. Some of the most prolific, and commercially successful, bloggers are full-time moms. While I can't explain why without having been there myself, I do believe it probably has something to do with an efficiency that develops among women who now have two jobs to do: There's no time for questioning your ability; both jobs simply have to get done. Kids need to have their lunches made, just as presentations need to be completed. There's less time to stew and wonder, could I have done that better? Was I less than perfect in that meeting? It's a strange luxury--not having the time to overthink, just to do.

I recall the first BlogHer, when I woke up at 5a.m., arrived at the TechMart at 6am to help post signage and prepare the registration line, and was sick with nerves. Though I was a blogger and can relate to the many pre-BlogHer posts I read by women with social anxieties, my concerns were hardly around who congregated with whom, or what bloggers might blow me off, but rather whether the food was coming out on time, if sponsors got what we promised them, if the sessions were useful. Connecting later with other women over drinks, or even in the hallway on their way to a session, was pure pleasure in comparison.

I realize now that my stress during BlogHer is the kind that lies in the eye of the storm, where anxiety is minimalized to the bare essentials. After BlogHer '05 I cared less about my blog traffic--even stopped monitoring it altogether--or whether I was included in top blogger lists. I was enveloped in a new purpose of creating a space for this community. The act of creation and nurturing something or someone other than yourself immunizes you from seeing the world as a pecking order, or as a series of parties you are not invited to, or as an old-boys network. These constructs melt away; paradoxically, there is less time AND fewer constraints. It's a place of re-invention.

Perhaps, since BlogHer is my "baby" this is not dissimilar to the situation of the working mother.

This year for me will be different. I have a new consideration that is purely physical. I won't likely be able to weather a day of not eating. I won't laugh off suggestions of taking a load off. I'm not concerned about making it to all of the parties, but rather whether I will have the energy to make it to A party. I will literally have to put my feet up at times over the next few days. Perhaps, from this standpoint, I will get to see the event from others' eyes.

But from my own it will be different because I have another job, if you will, that makes some of the rushing, the stressing, the performing a bit absurd. And it will be different because I will be in wonderment at those who have children already, or another baby--literal or figurative--in the making who attack this event like they do every thing else, with no second thoughts.
 

Mother's guilt begins: Contemplating third trimester travel

A few weeks ago I went to my monthly appointment with my midwife, a gal I've moved heaven and earth (translation: moved to a more expensive insurance plan) to keep. Every few weeks, as I get more and more uncovered lab invoices and anticipate the biggie to come--the hospital bill--I remind myself that I chose this situation. I chose this insurance plan because it includes in its network the hospital where my midwife works, and I really, really like my midwife. She's been in the midwifery business for years, she came very well recommended, and when we met I said to myself--SHE'S the one.

So then, why can I not take her advice?

My monthly checkup was about 90 percent complete--baby's heartbeat is fine, my growth is normal, my pee is normal--when H-band decides to chime in with The Question. The question I'd answered for myself a long time ago, but obviously not to his satisfaction:

"You know, Jory's got a blogging conference in New York in early August she's planning on going to. She's been traveling a lot lately, and this would be her last trip, but I just wonder if it's a good idea."

Midwife asks: "How many weeks will you be?"

"Thirty four," H-band says.

"Thirty three," I correct him, "entering my thirty fourth."

Our midwife doesn't even take a second to think it over, "Oh well, you're not going."

"I'm not?"

"Oh no, not at thirty four weeks."

I throw out my defensive measure--the one I'd been resting on."My airline cut-off is thirty six weeks!"

"Airlines don't know what's best for you," she says launching into a very well-meaning discussion about how it makes perfect sense that I would still continue to think like a business person, since it's how I've derived my identity for so long, and how difficult it can be to start thinking like a mom. But starting now, it was time to think differently, make different decisions.

I think to myself, of course I will, but after the conference.

Mentally I cross off a business trip to Chicago and my high school reunion, which would take place the two weeks before my conference. These are the sacrifices I must make as a mom to be. But no. Not my conference.

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Women's work?

Part of my experimentation with my new neighborhood involved trying a new place for a mani-pedi. This didn't come with a small amount of apprehension; a good mani-pedi place is hard to find.

I got comfortable in my chair, settling into the warm pool of water at my feet. An Asian man--not older than 35--lifted my right hand.

"What shape?"

"Short and square," I replied.

"This color on your hands and feet?" he asked, holding up the bottle of deep red that I had picked out when I walked in.

"Please."

I watched this man study my cuticles and start trimming away at my nails. This was most certainly a first for me--having a man give me a mani-pedi. I've seen more men come to salons to receive services, but never had I seen a man giving them before.

I noticed my judgements: Can this guy do a good job? Will he bungle the polish? I watched him work, when normally I would sit back and zone out.

But why would a man who's trained to give manicures do a bad job? This incident made me think about work, and more specifically, women's work versus men's work. What kind belongs to whom anymore?

____________________________________________


I hand H-band a piece of notebook paper with a list of tasks.

"For the week," I say to him, dubious that he would internalize my requests.

"Yep, thanks."

"What are you doing today?"

"Got some work out back, some shopping, and a call at lunchtime," he says.

I'm uneasy with his answer, "But what about the list? When will you get to the list?"

I wonder if, since leaving his company, he'll be efficient with his time, or productive. When we both worked full-time we divided tasks accordingly: He did household tasks like the dishes and most of the cooking. I paid the bills and planned things like travel and dinner parties. I gravitated toward things in the future; he handled things as they came up.  Now he was taking on everything at home: the immediate, the planned, and, when the baby comes, the primary caregiving.

I remind myself that he's good at this. I come home, and he's made dinner. I know that with our daughter he will do what comes naturally and keep her safe, fed, and loved. But I can't help myself: I plan.

"When will you call the insurance people?" I ask. "Will you hang the pictures today?" "Who are you meeting with today?" I want to make sure he really wants to do this. And I have to ensure he's structured, that he's in movement, that he still thinks of his future.

I need to watch him work because I question his instincts in this realm, even when they are more highly honed than my own.

 

 

Where did all my hobbies go?

My business partner, Lisa, passed along a questionnaire from a blogger who will be writing about the working habits of female entrepreneurs. Both Lisa and my other partner, Elisa, had responded; I tried not to read their answers as I approached the questions, but I couldn't help but notice that our answers were eerily similar--with the exception that, as a parent, Lisa spends about 1/3 of her time parenting. Elisa and I try to eak in workouts, books/TV and the occasional cooked meal when we're not working or sleeping.

What amazed me about all of our responses:

--Our hours worked: We tend to put in similar amounts of hours, getting up early to address email, getting in a full work day, and jumping back on our computers to address email/reading after our dinners and activities with friends/spouses/children.

--Our time on email: It's an ever-present thing, even when we're traveling or "offline".

--Our dwindling hobbies: Elisa is a theater buff, and Lisa used to ski a ton. I used to go to yoga class religiously and write creatively. These pursuits were not in our answers, or they were mentioned as rare activities squeezed in while on vacation, or with the words "try to" preceding them, as in, "I TRY to catch a show once a month."

As I was typing my responses to these questions about what I did outside of work--working on a Saturday morning, as I tend to knock out reading I didn't get to during the week--I looked over at my husband, Jesse, embarrassed.

"Jeezus hun! I don't have hobbies anymore."

"You think?" he said, with no small amount of sarcasm.

I love to read profiles of other entrepreneurs, with the voraciousness many have while reading People, In-Style, or some other publication detailing the lives of the rich and famous. I love to hear how they spend their time, down to their commute routines. There's a column in Inc Magazine that showcases a different entrepreneur every month, detailing his/her typical work day. And I marvel at those who do such things as cycle religiously for two hours before sunrise, or who are competitive flamenco dancers on the side. How do they do it and run a business? I wonder.  

I think back to early in my career in New York City, when I worked at several media conglomerates and made it a goal of mine to hit all of the new plays, films, and hot spots I could afford that were listed in Time Out NY magazine. Going through old boxes this past month as I prepared for a move, I found an old collection of Playbills and matchbooks--proof that, once, I did stuff that was not work-related. I found old manuscripts and magazine clips and was amazed at the consecutive hours of creative time it must have taken to write it all. Though I wanted to pare down all the random detritus I'd collected over the years, I couldn't get myself to throw this stuff away.

Jesse and I stole away for a bagel this morning, and I bragged to him that every Saturday, back when I lived in New York more than 10 years ago, I used to walk to a local bagel shop, order one with one of three of my favorite shmear flavors, then stop over at the coffee shop across the street to read The New Yorker or a book I was reading with my book club. I didn't have a mobile phone or a laptop; it was a purely analog pursuit. And I'd spend hours there, enough to get my thoughts swirling. I'd go home and write up a storm.

I used to regularly host friends for dinner, planning the menu days before and often prepping food most of a Saturday afternoon. Or I'd endeavor to bake something I'd never made before.

I used to take classes on such things as fiction writing, winetasting, boxing, or improvisational acting, and attend book readings after work.

I feel slightly wistful, but hardly regretful, of the changes; I'm more mindful of them. On the other side of the coin, 10 years ago I yearned for more adventure out of my work, and to do more than read manuscripts and edit articles eight hours a day. I wished I could travel more. I wished that I could work for myself and maybe even support a family with my work. I wished that the time I did have wasn't spent wishing for more.

I may have no hobbies, but in that last respect the grass is most certainly greener today.

The Back-Up Parent

My sister teaches college history in NYC. From the looks of it she has one of those dream jobs that allows for full-time employment and flexibility. Twice a week she comes into the city early to teach class and meet with students, and the other days she works from home, where she works full-time. The days she is in the city her husband drops the kids off at day care and the school bus stop, but she comes home early to pick them up, make dinner, and most times bathe them and put them to bed.

Her husband's job is demanding. He's an attorney and often has to spend long days at the office and work on weekends. When he gets home the kids are often in bed. He gets up early to help get them ready in the morning. I wonder how he manages on so little sleep.

"That's just the way it is right now," my sister says. My job has more flexibility so it makes sense that I'm the default for picking up the kids from school, taking them to appointments and soccer practice, staying home with them when they are sick."

Many couples I know have a similar arrangement: the spouse with more flexibility is the default child chauffeur, preschool pageant volunteer, dinner maker. The job that yields more income is protected by both parties.

"I just couldn't imagine Chris having to leave the office in the middle of the day with all he's got going on," she said, then joked, "but me--I'm always backing toward the exit while people are still talking to me. I'm always in a state of having to be somewhere else."

She doesn't tell me this to complain. It's just more of an observation she's had lately. Her new book is out, and though she's tickled by the PR and attention it's getting, she's had to rethink her intricate weekly regime. A panel discussion at Princeton, a book reading at night in the city, an interview during the dinner making hour. These are things that require rearranging, booking sitters, and asking favors of neighbors. Her husband has been more than willing to take days at home and rearrange his schedule to support her. But she still seems uneasy.

"It's great that he helps out when he can," she said. "But he's not the back-up. I am. I'm still the back-up."

I want her to take in the rewards of her hard work. To spend a day contemplating her next project uninterrupted. To prepare for an interview without worrying about what needs to thaw in time for dinner. I want her to be able to say, "It's all covered," and then embark on a U.S. book tour. Most of all, I don't want her to always be in a state of leaving when she's at work.

And for me, I don't want to always be in a state of leaving when I'm at home. I feel like I'm learning a new skillset from her--someone who once could never put her work down. It involves thinking linearly--picking up the kids, making dinner, running the bath. It involves fewer phone calls, perhaps not even checking messages in the evenings. It involves waking up early not to catch up on email but to make lunches and help little people pick out their outfits. It involves deriving less identity from one's career and more from somewhere else. My sister's been at it for years, and it hasn't come naturally, but she's become a pro.

A Travel Resolution: Spending more quality time on the road

I've been thinking a lot about my business travel rituals while I've spent the last week at home on vacation. I hadn't realized I had some, but over the past few years it's become inevitable.

Before we had secured venture funding, travel was done on the founders' dime. As we started to build revenue we had a bit more budget to work with, but mostly it meant finding the cheapest air and hotel rates, hoping to get some freebies from miles, and researching how to get to and from airports using subsidized transportation.

With our office manager's help, I still try to find decent rates where I go, but I realized how much time and precious energy was lost trying to skimp on basic travel expenses. Now I take cabs or order car services and avoid redeyes. It just makes more sense to have more time to work, not commute, and to be effective at meetings, not just show up for them.

I've also made more emotional expenditures. I go to New York often and stay with my sister, which in addition to saving the company from astronomical room rates also grounds me. If I'm not working late I'll read to the kids before bed, or eat with my sister and watch a TV show. When I'm in Chicago I stay with my mother and like to go to dinner. I may have to get back on email afterward, but at least we can catch up over a meal. 

When I'm not with family and on the road I try (try, being the operative word here) to get in some TV or reading at night. I try to work out and read the newspaper in the morning.

I do what I can, but I think there's more to be done. Perhaps I have to think about spending less time with my "other family."

It's a joke, even if twisted, my husband's reference to my "other family". He uses this term to make light of my incessant business trips. When I leave on one he'll often say, "Off to see your other family?" When I call him from the road and tell him I have to make our call short to get some shuteye, he'll say, "Yep, gotta spend time with your other family." He says it lightheartedly, but I know that there's a tinge of regret in there. I know he misses me.

Sometimes I have fun with this "other family". I'll call him, after coming home late from a business dinner on the road and tell him I was out with my other family and calling to check in. Rarely do our conversations last very long, and I attribute this to having more to do before bed or sheer exhaustion. He knows it's not personal--we have better conversations in person than over the phone. But when you spend a lot of time away that's a lot of small talk.

I'm curious to hear about others' travel rituals. How do you stay connected when you are with your other family?

Who Can Live on Airplane Food Alone? When Life is Up in the Air

Up in the Air, starring George Clooney, as I was sure to relate to the lead character's obsession with airline loyalty program status (see some examples of said obsession on my blog Pause). I did chuckle at the parts where Clooney is comparing loyalty program perks with another road warrior/paramour. I thought to myself, Lord that's how I sound sometimes. Though I have much less of a need to reach the 10 Million Mile Club. That sort of honor would make me feel like I really don't have a life, and at some point in my travels I realized perks were not badges of honor, but simply ways of enjoying the less-than-ideal situation of spending time away from home.

There were parts that unexpectedly resonated with me. The Northern Wisconsin restaurant where Clooney meets his sisters for a rehearsal dinner before his younger sister's wedding was eerily similar to one I went to last year for my cousin's wedding in Wisconsin. The tech conference Clooney crashes with a colleague and a woman who becomes his no-strings attached hookup could be Ad:Tech (loved the inclusion of Young MC here as the nostalgia-inducing act). I've also honed my security screening routine to an efficiency that's less balletic than the film's version, but not dissimilar.

(Spoiler alert: if you are more interested in underlying messages than plot) Clooney's character not only has client engagements while on the road--he is a gifted speaker who talks about how to live "without baggage". His topic justifies the way he lives. His physical home, where he spends only a sliver of his time, looks different than you would imagine a businessman to have: It's spare, almost dorm-room-like in soulessness. It reminded me of an extended stay suite, only more empty. Clearly this character has not invested in, nor cared to have, a personal life. A series of random events makes him aware of this imbalance, and he feels the pain of being disconnected.

I am lucky to have a family and network of friends who stay in my life, but certainly, while single, I had no desire for connection. Perhaps I was a late bloomer; I had different priorities from others my age, who seemed to live for their weekends, were saving up for houses, and wanted life partners. I just wanted a promotion. My work was my connection, and I was good at it, while being less good at relationships outside of work. There were always people around, I was hardly lonely. I assumed that being good at work would address all of the other areas that were being neglected--in due time. This doesn't happen. It happens when you decide it will.

I see many real-life foils to Clooney's character who make work and life work, perhaps not with the balletic efficiency Clooney's character has while packing his bag and embarking on the next business trip, but with far less regret.

Photo Credit

 

Are People Who Sleep Less More Successful?

Early in my working life in New York City I read a feature story, I think it was in the Times Business section, about the sleeping habits of top-performing media executives. The common thread among all of them: They slept no more than 5 hours a night. Most slept less. This tendency to not sleep was positioned in this article as a competitive edge, even a requirement to being successful.

I remember feeling discouraged. I had been slogging it out at magazines and was looking for some way to distinguish myself, but I wasn't an early riser. As a teenager I often slept until 10 or 11 in the morning. An early-bird class I had one semester nearly did me in. In college, I dropped the one class I had that began before 10.  I was fortunate to work in an industry where people ambled in between 9 and 10am. I never minded working late.

But the luminaries in this article--many of whom I forget now, interestingly, though I do recall book publisher Judith Regan--often worked long hours. A typical routine: Wake up at 4am; jump on the treadmill (these folks had the money and the space in their Manhattan apartments to have exercise equipment in their homes, something I aspired to have); shower and get dressed; read all of the dailies; and still manage to get into the office before everyone else.

For a while I tried to wake up early--around 6am--to fit in a workout before going to the office, but the effort was short-lived. My body much preferred working out in the evening and the scramble to and from the gym took too much time. I loved to read, but I could never get through all of my material on a subway ride. I figured I was just too inefficient and lazy.

Years later I still wonder how it's possible to hold to this kind of schedule. I work longer days now, but I can't function if I can't sleep at least 6 hours (insomnia notwithstanding). If I have to get up early for a meeting, or to catch a plane, I'll get up; I have to. But it's been only recently that I've accepted that all things being equal, I prefer to sleep in.