The siren song of motherhood

And why there is no one-size-fits-all approach for raising children

Photo credit: Jonathan Gipaya

The client is still talking, and my breasts are swollen with milk.

Pre-baby, it wouldn’t have been a big deal to run fifteen minutes over. But I had never gotten the hang of a breast pump, a tangle of silicon tubes and plastic shields that never quite fit on my nipples. The last thing my husband needed was more dishes to do, especially when the distance to my daughter was down a flight of stairs. I understand why my parents, who watched babies die at refugee camps from their mothers’ insufficient milk supply, kept pestering me to give her a bottle of formula—but I was sleep-deprived and annoyed and it may have been their story, but it wasn’t mine.

I should have been grateful for the clients. I should have been ecstatic for the help of grandparents living within driving distance, who loaded my fridge with leftovers and played with my daughter while I took meetings in the day, but were also senior citizens who had experienced so much pain and suffering that deep in my gut, I knew it was wrong to deprive them of their retirement years. Nine months later, I gently relieved them of childcare duties, insisting that I had things under control. My daughter was (mostly) sleeping through the night. She still loved to nurse, but didn’t mind solids, relieving some of the burden on me to be her sole source of sustenance. My husband shifted his work schedule to four days a week and enrolled in a Parent and Baby class.

I didn’t sleep for over four hours at a time, but damn was I proud of myself for juggling work and parenthood without childcare in the middle of a global pandemic.

So when a homepage headline drove me to the brink of a mental breakdown, I knew it was time to reevaluate what I was doing and who it was impacting. I considered my husband, who got two weeks of paternity leave because of a lucrative project that showed up when the hospital bills did. I thought about my clients, who paid a premium for my presence, and only got a fraction of what I used to offer. I thought about my emotionally distant relationship with my mother, who started an in-home daycare when I was a year old, giving me no choice but to share her love and affection with six other strange children. I thought of my maternal grandmother, grieving the sudden death of her husband with a young child to raise and a sugar plantation to manage—eventually shipping the little girl to boarding school, where she was raised by nuns and the presence of God, married a South Vietnamese Naval Officer, and immigrated to America.

And finally, after the thinking mind settled and all I was left with was the beat of my daughter’s heart against my chest, I felt my ego dissipate for a moment—only to return to consciousness with the realization that she was the only person I wanted to impress.

The human mind likes to think dualistically, and the culture war between working mothers and primary caregivers is no exception. Outsource your childcare, and now you have a second mortgage with a side of guilt and never-ending viruses; raise them yourself and prepare for people to chip away at your self-esteem with their condescension and ignorance. There is no one-size-fits-all approach to raising children, and every family needs to consider their resources, mental health, goals and aspirations, and the specific needs of the kid(s)—and even then, there is no algorithm we can use to predict whether the decision made was the right one.

Nevertheless, it’s all I’m thinking about while waiting for my daughter to complete her kindergarten assessment. The office assistant must think I’m insane because my watery gaze alternates between the ceiling, clock, door, and my sneakers. Minutes earlier, my daughter had grabbed the teacher’s hand and skipped towards the classroom before I could even utter a goodbye, calling after her, “Make sure to go to the bathroom before you start!” I’m simultaneously anxious and excited, wondering what on earth I’m going to do with six uninterrupted hours a day when I’ve spent the last half decade writing to the chime of Pomodoro timers.

So I practically jump out of my seat when my husband gives my hand a reassuring squeeze, offering the gratitude every mother wants to hear:

Thank you for raising her.

Now over to you:

1. What does/did your childcare situation look like when your kids were young? What factors did you and your partner consider in making that decision?

2. What are things you liked and disliked in your childhood? If you’re a parent, what are you doing the same or differently, and why?

3. What are your tips on getting a child ready for kindergarten? (Asking for a very emotional friend 😭)

Leave a comment and let me know 👇🏼

Cheers,

Sophia :)

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P.S. No, you’re not missing half of the newsletter. I’m experimenting with a new links format, so keep an eye out in your inbox for that.

P.P.S. Last month, I wrote about heroes, mentors, and how I finally conquered my fear of writing an About page. In case you missed it, the link is below.