flying solo

I’m also taking a break from the whining about how hard my life is, to report that one of my cousins came to visit with his toddler a few weeks ago. My cousin is a single dad and yes, he’s in academic medicine.

When I’m pulling into the driveway after preschool pick-up, there is inevitably a part of me that looks for DP’s car, imagining that maybe he has come home in time for dinner. 19/20, or more likely 29/30 times, this does not happen. But-that 30th time, it does happen.  As much as I would love to have family dinner, I am extremely grateful to have a partner to share (balanced or not) in parenting, in household responsibilities, in keeping a roof over our heads. This was particularly clear last week, stuck at home with the kids for days on end.  And on the last day, counting down every.single.minute. of Caillou/Super Why/Anything, just trying to keep them distracted while I threw up over and over again. I am pretty sure when DP walked in the door, he was backlit with a distinct glow and an angels’ chorus was definitely there somewhere.

I imagine, as a single parent, you don’t necessarily have the luxury to mull over this or that flavor of your still-essentially-over-educated-career-path*- you do what works best for your family and move on.  DP works long enough hours that I may feel like I act like a single parent, but I truly have no idea what it’s like- knowing that 30/30 times there will not be another adult at home for dinner. Not having someone to join you in doing bad imitations of your kids after they go to bed. Not having someone to walk in the door, get the kids fed and bathed and put to bed, so you can go clean up your vomit-y self and get into bed.

Single parents, I bow down to you.

*He recently switched from research to clinical track, when it became obvious that the money and time was better. No surprise there: traditional academic medicine tracks: optimized for those with a stay-at-home spouse.

sandwich me

When it comes to bowing out of the race, I’ve already covered the typical bases of general work-household-children overload and b*tching about academia.  However, I had to follow completely different line of internet discussion to hit upon the term Sandwich Generation, which I think was originally coined for baby boomers who had to manage the needs of both their children and their aging parents. I have a completely unsubstantiated theory as to why these parenting/work-life and elder care conversations don’t intersect more often: We’re only just now hitting a critical mass of women who are old enough to be juggling both older parents and very young children.  Perhaps for the original SG, their kids were teenagers or something, and these concerns impacted mid-career, rather than early-career, decision-making. Instead of: I have a newborn, and not only are my parents too old to help me with said newborn, but I have to take my mom to the dentist, and my team needs me to go to China next week.

Our parents all live within 50 miles of us.  People keep trying to reassure me that it will get easier, “it” being the kids, because before you know it, they will get older and be able to do things like serve you coffee in the morning.  However, I can only think about how that also means our parents will get older.  We are fortunate that these days, we do get calls for all kinds of assistance, but it’s often for something like tech support. But, we are just a few short years away from driving to weekly bladder re-training therapy. And later, the cascade into trips in and out of the hospital, navigating the byzantine landscape of home care, independent living, assisted living, and on and on.

I admit, that last sentence was excessively doom-and-gloom, but I’ve already had a bit of been-there-done-that in the year before CFIL passed away (seven years ago). Recently, we had several friends and relatives (with preschool-aged children), who had to upend their lives -repeatedly- because one or more parents were hospitalized.

For now, I just want to highlight that this is an important consideration for me and likely anyone else in that lovely Advanced Maternal Age category.  Family responsibilities include those to your parents. Some career paths, including academia, have a great advantage of flexibility, but all the flexibility in the world cannot substitute for the time that you need to have important conversations, like explaining to your father what in the world the doctor just said. Again. And it seems harder to outsource parent-care. While I can pay someone to clean my house or change diapers, it’s still hard to envision someone else talking our parents through incredibly difficult life decisions down the road, such as figuring out whether or not they can live at home any more.

p.s. I also want to mention that this is not an issue for me personally, but I have a number of friends who are supporting their parents financially as well.  This is another major concern that I don’t see coming up in these women-career-work-life-balance etc discussions.

p.p.s. The sandwich is the Ignatius R. I’ve never had it, but I am pretty sure eating it could solve a lot of my problems.

working those silver linings

We’ve been asked sometimes whether CMIL lives with us, to which the answer has been technically, no.  But we have gone through periods in which she visits us very week and stays for 3-4 days of the week, so it feels a little close. However, we noticed sometime after New Year’s that she tended to stay with my brother-in-law, rather than with us, despite the dedicated master bedroom suite that she has at our house.  I wondered, not very hard, about whether perhaps we had offended her in some way?

I recently found out the real reason: she wants DP to be able to sleep in “her” bedroom at our house, so he can get a good night’s sleep, not being woken up by the children, because “he has to go to work.”

A comment which of course had the special CMIL magic that makes me grateful, resentful, guilty-for-feeling resentful, then irritated for feeling guilty, all in a matter of seconds.

My brother-in-law is remodeling his house, so she stayed with us for 5 days Mother’s Day weekend.  But, I think the weekend probably cemented her preference for staying with DP’s brother. We had the crazy alarm shenanigans. That night, the glass wall in her bathroom shower spontaneously shattered around 1:30 am, shocking her awake, and rendering the bathroom unusable for several days. Throughout her stay she also fretted nonstop about DP’s sleep, periodically roaming into the family room and suggesting that she could fit on the couch.

In other words, I think she was getting just as batty staying with us, as we were with having her with us.  So if there was ever a time to capitalize on traditional Chinese gender prejudices, this is it.  With that, I’m going to sleep since some of us have to go to work.

National Lampoon’s Chinese Mom

Last Friday I was just leaving preschool with the kids in tow when I got a call from CMIL.

CMIL: Hello? Hello? MFM?

In the background I hear the whooooop! whoooop! whoooooop! of our alarm system going off.

MFM: CMIL, are you at our house? Are you okay?

CMIL: I can’t hear you. What’s the code on the alarm? (whooop! whoooop! whooop!)

MFM: IT’S THE SAME AS YOURS!

CMIL: I can’t hear you. What was that? (whooop! whoooop! whooop!)

MFM: IT’S. THE. SAME. AS. YOURS.

CMIL: I don’t see a star. What was that? (whooop! whoooop! whooop!)

A couple more rounds and I decide to just shout the code into my phone, figuring that the preschool crowd is unlikely to raid our house. And if they did, would they please please take the Disney princess crap that PJ has accumulated from CMIL.

I realize that I missed a call from the security company.  I also realize that it would be a lot easier to manage the situation if I got the kids strapped into the car rather than simultaneously shouting at the phone and trying to keep PJ from tearing around the parking lot, “greeting” her friends’ parents’ cars.

Once we’re locked in the Mega-Van, I try to call the security company back and get a call from DP in the meantime.

DP: Are you okay? I just got a call from the security company, they said you weren’t answering, and asked me if I wanted them have the police send someone over.

MFM: Oh, yes, sorry! It’s your mom- she forgot the code and she can’t hear me over the phone, and I missed the call.

DP: Oops, I guess I sent the cops to our house. I’ll call the security company back.

I send a text to CMIL with the code, and then call her as I’m driving back.

CMIL: Hello? Hello? The code is not working.

(Whooop! whoooop! whooop! Then: Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the house. Ma’am? Can you step outside please? Ma’am? I can’t let you go back in the house.)

We roar up the driveway (okay, it’s only like, 10 feet long, but isn’t that more exciting, imagining a minivan charging up to your house?), hop out, and rescue the police office and CMIL from each other.  CMIL swears we never told her the code, though in fact we have, multiple times, and furthermore, tried to choose a code she would never forget.  Her non-smart phone did not display the entire text message, hence she was unable enter that, either.

I admit that this is pretty standard elderly parent hijinks, not specific to Chinese moms, but I really do think we could put together a National Lampoon’s series with Chinese mom stories, don’t you?*

After hearing this story, one of my friends said: Man, I could totally start a burglary ring with a bunch of old Asian ladies. Any time the cops caught us breaking into someone’s house, they’d just be like, Oh! This is my son’s house!

Also, from now on, we can fondly look back on the time that DP called the cops on his mom.

*Top 2 searches that lead to this website: having a baby during residency, having a Chinese mother-in-law

SAHD

Nope, this is not a post about Stay At Home Dads. I’m talking Stay At Home Daughters (or Daughters-in-Law*).  Whereas I’ve heard of these mythical grandparents who completely give up their lives to help with childcare and housework, DP and I have aging parents who increasingly need more help from us.  And guess what–when you choose to stay at home with your children, or work part-time/flex-time in order to tend to your own household, you are naturally also the one available to take care of the parents.

PJ has been sick the past four days, MJ is starting to pick it up, and DP has been on call, so you can imagine I was pretty excited to get back to work today (both from a productivity and tearing-my-hair-out standpoint).  However, the better part of the day was spent with CMIL checking out a condo for her so she can move closer to us.  The bulk of my post-bedtime evening has been spent reading over disclosure statements.

It’s a little bit of a snag, workwise, but this is certainly minor compared to what’s coming down the pipeline, namely, geriatric health issues.  And don’t even get me started on my own parents, who are moving to the area soon for the same reason.

To not do this– to not be there for our parents– that’s not an option.  Also, as with your own children, there are some things you just cannot outsource for your parents, and someone needs to be the CEO/manager of their needs.

The past couple days are a reminder of why, in the past 7 years, my productivity has often gone to down the tubes. My time in grad school was pushed longer and longer  not only by kids and thyroid cancer, but also by the illness and eventual passing of my father-in-law. That’s all part of life.

I have this plan that the post-doc is lower key, flex-time while the kids are little, and then I am supposed to ramp up to a faculty job.  However, I really question whether I can do it, or if even these scaled-back career aspirations have to be shelved.  There’s simply too much to do at home, for kids, for parents.

Where’s DP in all of this, you might ask? Or other family members?

items that at first glance, may not be what one thinks of immediately as an obvious gift for a 3-year-old

recent gifts that PJ has received from DP’s mother:

a 3-pack of pink plastic shower caps (sized for adults)

a Macy’s Hotel Collection mattress pad (size: twin)

a Macy’s Hotel Collection down pillow and a pair of 300-count pink pillowcases (size: king)

a set of monogrammed hand towels

Really, CMIL is very generous and well-meaning. It’s just that 3 years old was 73 years ago for her, and it is hard to keep a straight face when CMIL is trying to appease a toddler tantrum by offering…a mattress pad.

And since we just passed Chinese New Year, she did give PJ and MJ the best gift of all–red envelopes!

va-cay-shun

We just got back from the most luxurious family vacation of our lives in Tropical Island Paradise, and yes, it really is that great. (Go ahead,  I’ll give you a few second to hate on me.) DP and I couldn’t believe it ourselves.  We were convinced we were on a TV show, or in a movie. At first it was all, House Hunters International, and then Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, and then heartwarming scenes of a fictional multigeneral family that only exist in Nancy Meyer movies.

What happened was this: my father finally retired this year at the ripe age of 72, and wanted to fulfill a long-cherished wish to have all of his children and grandchildren get together for a fabulous vacation.  My parents fronted the funds and my sister organized a trip to Tropical Island Paradise, complete with a large villa that had bedrooms for all, a view of the ocean, a pool, and get this…a cook, housekeepers, butler, and driver. (A couple more seconds allotted for hating.) A typical day would involve getting up, punting the kids to relatives and going back to sleep, then waking up and magically breakfast would appear on the table. The rest of the day was just alternating between pool, beach, and eating. PJ had a great time playing with her cousins and MJ was in her own special heaven, in which someone was holding her at all times.  After dinner, in which we toasted something or other and my dad made some sort of patriarchal speech, we got the kids to bed and then stayed up reading books, playing cards and watching sports on TV (DP was on this trip, after all).

Of course, all of this fabulousness does not come cheap– you need someone to pour the buckets of money. Furthermore, none of those TV shows or movies ever lets on the other costs of taking such a trip…as in, traveling with young children can also really kind of suck.

giving thanks

This year I am grateful for so many things, it’s hard to name them all. Here are just a few:

• Spouse had the holiday off, thus when PJ crawled into bed at 6 am sans pull-up or pants, I could pleasantly suggest that she ask Daddy for help going potty and getting dressed.
• Had the means and family acceptance to order Thanksgiving dinner from Whole Paycheck rather than spend the day trying to cook a giant meal and take care of kids at same time.
• Upon discovering that the very expensive pre-ordered beef roast was not actually seasoned or cooked as promised, but was in fact, just a large hunk of raw meat, spouse (who hates turkey) took it upon himself to season and cook it.
• Spouse successfully reprogrammed unnecessarily high tech meat thermometer (kitchen-gadget disorder NOS) from French back to English.
• Despite leaving house-ful of friends and children to drive CMIL to the mall on Black Friday, did NOT have to actually accompany CMIL into the heart of darkness.*
• CMIL respected our requests not to buy children any fancy overpriced extremely unattractive clothes, regardless of how deeply discounted said items may have been.
• That the baby was still able to nap through blaring sounds of PJ’s new (deeply discounted) toy dog belting out the same Christmas song on infinite repeat.
• CMIL was willing to babysit after we put both kids to bed AND did not call us to come home immediately as soon as the baby made a peep–thereby allowing our first trip to the movie theater in…a year?
• That despite having a weatherbeaten face suggestive of a wizened fisherman, Daniel Craig is still fabulously ripped.

And oh yeah, thanks for having a happy, healthy family, food on the table, water, electricity, roof over our heads, jobs and work that we enjoy, etc etc.

*Did I just inappropriately compare the Congo to an American shopping mall on Black Friday? Even while truly tragic events are happening in the DRC? Yes, I did.

superheroes 2, happy birthday

My brother’s birthday just passed and  now that I’ve paid tribute to my sister, he deserves his own blog nod. My sister is the oldest (Head of the Class/El Jefe), my brother is the middle child (Beleaguered/Precious Only Son), and then there’s me (Spoiled Baby of the Family).

I could tell you how my brother is really smart and doing his own version of saving the world,* but what I feel like talking about today is something else. We just got pictures from PJ’s birthday party and there’s a great shot of my brother, flanked by smiling 3-year-old nieces on either side- his arms are raised mid-push, and the girls are flying through the air on the swings.

My brother loves kids. And I don’t mean, he just loves to take them to the playground and let them have as much ice cream as they want. He has come to help after every single one of our (my sister’s and my) kids were born- and pretty well versed in handling cranky toddlers or bouncing a colicky baby on a gd*mn exercise ball for two hours straight.

This is important because my sister-in-law has some exciting new career options on the horizon. They plan to have kids soon, and so if her career takes off, he wants to be the one to have the more flexible job, to be home more, to take care of the kids. Now, I have to say, anticipating what needs to be done around the house is not exactly one of my brother’s strengths (see above: Precious Only Son; sorry, bro, you know it’s true)–but I think the key is that he’s willing to learn and do whatever it takes. He sees it as a responsibility and one that doesn’t have to be assumed by his wife.  And I’m really proud of him for that.

If there were more men like my brother, maybe we wouldn’t be going in circles with these conversations about why/why not women can have high-powered careers blah blah blah.

*Yes, to my father’s chagrin, we’re a bunch of bleeding hearts over here. We’ll try to fix that in the next generation.

superheroes

My sister and her family (nephew, 6, niece, 3, brother-in-law, “very VERY big,” per PJ) visited us last month, and a great time was had by all– trips to the local museums, PJ’s birthday party, games involving running around with random household objects over heads, and nighttime pee accidents by all kids at least once.

I’ve been trying to write a post about my sister for a long time now, and I decided I should just get it over with I think I have finally figured out why I’ve been struggling. I wanted to write something about how I think my sister is this amazing person–she has a Very Important Job, takes care of everything for her kids, cooks fresh, gourmet-style meals,  even exercises. Her husband travels every week, and so she’s often doing all this solo. (She’s also in a book club but it’s not as if she reads the books- she’s a real person, not someone I made up).  She has the kind of job that’s so important, I can’t even tell you about it because she’s not allowed to tell me. I think she’s saving the world or something, but all I know is stuff like how her department has an annual holiday dessert party-competition, and you know how most people would make gingerbread cookies or something, but last year my sister made green tea macaroons with a chocolate ganache filling.

I’ve realized that it’s hard to strike the right tone in writing about her because I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging/idolizing, my sister is Superwoman yah yah yah, nor do I want to make her sound scary/crazy, like some Martha Stewart-Hillary Clinton hybrid. (Aside- who do you think would win in a MS-HC death match? I’d give the nod to MS for the prison time.)

I think what I have wanted to say is that I am simply in awe of my sister’s ability to keep track of so much stuff in her head at one time without exploding. How she can shift easily from work e-mails, to my nephew’s swim team schedule, to our family vacation plans 6 months hence, to her addiction to the show Bunheads on ABC Family.

My sister lives on the other side of the country, but if we weren’t settled here, with our own responsibilities (i.e., taking care of CMIL), I’d move next door to her in a heartbeat (so she could take care of us).

Maybe I just can’t write a good post because I miss my sister, and her family, all the time.