Job loss

I lost my job last week; it was unexpected and incredibly abrupt.  Matt asked what we should tell people if asked, and I said, "I did nothing wrong! I'm not ashamed," so there it is.  It wouldn't be prudent to get into the specifics, but I will say I've felt they were looking to push me (and perhaps, others) out for a while under new management and restructuring and they cited a bogus reason for termination.  It was done with spite and honest-to-god malice and I was out of the building within five minutes.  I was the girl bamboozled, walking down the sidewalk with picture frames and a fake plant in my bag, and other nicknacks I hastily grabbed from my cube.  I called my friend - who had left like a bat outta hell a few months before - and now works at her new gig (that she loves, adores, feels valued at) a block away.  "I'm meeting you downstairs in one minute!" she said, and we talked for thirty minutes on Market Street about how absolutely shitty that place is, the situation is, how, "Can you believe this?!" the thing is/was. She reminded me how toxic that place was, how I was deeply unhappy, how this is the push I need.  Sure, sure.  But I was just fired!, I said.  That sting (no matter how ridiculous or obtuse the reason).  That venom.

The thing with getting fired?  It's not as much the tactical concerns (although they are incredibly stressful - finding another job, financial worries, and so on).  The thing that kills me is this: it's the stripping away of any sense of self-worth.  I hate that they took that from me.  Work - even though I never loved it - made me feel more whole.  I feel devalued, dejected...all of that.

But...it's been a whole week now, and I've experienced more positive feedback and reinforcement from family and friends in this week than I have for the last two years at my former employer.  And for that I am so very, very thankful.  It's things like that that make me tear up now (I haven't cried about the job itself in days).  Like this email from Matt, which I re-read often:

Wanted to make sure you know how valued you are.  If [former employer and former manager] can't see it, it is entirely because of their own shortcomings.  You are lovable  smart, kind, charismatic, friendly, funny, loyal, and gorgeous.  You are a great wife and mother.  Annie and I will be happy to have you more to ourselves, and not wasting your presence on people who can't appreciate you.  We're going to be perfectly ok.  I can run some numbers if that will ease your mind a little.  I'm so sorry you had to go through this rejection, and my thoughts are with you as you figure out how to reconcile yourself with it.

(So he's not like that all the time, but I totally had to post that.)

Or when my friend (the lovely Danita) sent this, like, Visio-esque crazy chart mapping out available steps entitled "Mojo Rising: Operation You've Got Options, aka The Mojo Reclamation Project" (the girl has a way with words and a thing with titles, what can I say?...love you Danita!).  Or how friends are reaching out almost daily asking how I'm doing, saying let's go out for lunch, and sending me job postings.  Thank you, thank you.

One of the things I've cried over many times was taking Annie out of daycare.  Obviously, there is no reason for her to be in full-time care - and we can't afford keeping her there on a full or part-time basis - but she loves her friends there.  She wobbles with such joy to her seat at the table every morning, with breakfast in hand.  She and her friends giggle and screech and when we pick her up it's like, "Yeah, I see you, but as you can also see, I'm finishing something up here."  I love that she had that.  This week Matt and I visited a few in-home daycares in our area that allow two days a week (for my sanity, job searching, what have you) and that we can manage financially.  I also want her to continue to have that experience: to learn and cope with others, grow independently, discover things on her own away from us.  We're so proud of that girl, and I know she'll be fine, but it makes me hate this situation so much more.  Here are some photos of today at her last pick-up:

Two of her teachers, Mr. Eddie and Miss Holly.  Miss Holly knew her since she was a wee newborn at 11 weeks old.

So I'm not sure where this is going, or what my next step is, but there is beauty in all this ugliness.  Yesterday Annie and I had our first full day together and went to toddler time at the library and made a craft, then took a long nap together (she wasn't napping alone and I'm a bit under the weather).  Sweetness wrapped in a duvet.  Tomorrow we're going to our first local mom playgroup (I'm sure there will be more on that later).  And today I had an interview.  So...things - life - are moving along.  And in it's own way, it's still quite lovely.

Day by day

My nemesis is about 5'3", drives a Nisson Xterra (those bulky things are an abomination) and scowls at me every time I see her.  I feel like there are "Mommy Wars" in every context (home versus hospital births, breastfeeding versus formula, working versus not), and now I'm in my own personal battle with this moody mama from daycare.

Our daycare is in a well-off area, but we picked it because 1) it's close to my train station and 2) it seemed a lot more unstructured and normal than the Ivy League-groomin' joint down the street.  I mean...it's daycare. 

Anyway, let's get down to business: many of the parents are obviously doing pretty well because they have nice cars, clothes, and fancy baby seats. I'm totally ogling their kids' gear when they're not looking.  We have the Target special and drive the cheapest versions of a 2004 Civic and a 2005 Corolla.  The latter has packaging tape holding it together.  (Don't be intimidated by our high-roller lifestyle.)

So there I am every morning, shortly after seven, wearing something that is inevitably wrinkled, getting out of my sweet ride, and this mom gives me a raised eyebrow as I wobble in with my sweet little girl strapped in her car seat.  We are not so frumpy and frazzled that it makes us pathetic or endearing (movies with harried moms always make them seem cute and endearing): we're just doing our thing and a bit tired.  When I was in Annie's room I mentioned that she had a bit more peach fuzz than before (I mean, she's still pitifully bald, but we cling to the notion of a "a bit more fuzz!") and this other mother guffaws and comments on the luxuriousness of her child's hair while turning to me.  Look - no infant has luxurious hair!  It's called "baby fine" for a reason.  She then looks me up and down.  How dare this woman make me feel small.  Aren't we all in this together?  This is not easy.

Putting Annie in daycare is hard, but has not ravaged me the way I thought it might: during my last days of maternity leave I sat on my couch and wailed.  But it didn't talk long (like a day!) to find I like my adult time.  I like having a break.  But it still kills me she's there so often and for so long.  When her teacher took me aside this morning and said that Annie had a horrible day yesterday - that she was so fussy and inconsolable - my eyes welled up and that familiar tightness in my chest returned.  The teacher hugged me and said they'll watch her today - hopefully it will be better - it might be an ear infection or she may be teething, or she just had a bad day.  And I said thank you, please let me know, and I got in my car and cried.  Not just about her, but about both of us.

And this is when it's hard - when the puzzle pieces are still askew and nothing seems to be fitting, at daycare or at work.  For a job and industry that doesn't pay well and doesn't have any prestige (I can pick 'em!) I have a large workload and a lot of anxiety that surrounds it.  I have spoken to my boss about my inability to continue like this.  I even mentioned my Crohn's and how I'm having a flare that I believe is stress-induced - perhaps a risky corporate move, but needed.  Her sensitivity and response gives me hope.

And then I asked Matt to pick-up Annie earlier - to see how she was doing today.  I called him while still in the city shutting down my computer and he already had Annie home and she was "happy and smiley", and like that I felt instant relief.  I felt lightened.

I've been finding being a working mother very much like this: the pains ebb and flow, but for the most part, we're fine and we keep moving on.  One step - and day - after the next.

And with that, I boarded my train home.

That little girl is my beacon.

Two weeks ago was my 30th birthday.  Matt and Annie surprised me in the city and we went for lunch.  So incredibly sweet.  

We all took the train home together.  I think it's so sweet Annie and Matt took the train in alone together - she was well-behaved both ways!  Here she is mesmerized by my jewelry.

That weekend it was hot so we got out our baby pool (which we originally bought for Penny last year).  Matt and Annie took a dip!

Here's Annie in the backyard watching Matt work on the trellis he's building with his father.  He set this up for her when I was taking a nap:  they are quite the dynamic duo!

The trellis.  For Matt's darn arctic kiwi plants.  (The ideas this boy gets in his head.)

Matt's father David, Matt, and Annie on top of the trellis.

The pump

I was at a conference this past week in New York for two days.  During a breakout session, we had to speak about something that was on our minds, or close to our heart, while another person quietly listened, and I said, "I'm going to talk about my daughter, Annie."  So I did: I spoke about how I couldn't wait to get on that train home to see her.  I talked about the guilt that surrounds my decision to work.  I talked about how she has made me both whole, and has stripped the clarity from my thought process.  I talked about how nothing is fully right, or wrong, these days but my love for her is immense.

We only had a minute in this exercise, and the other person was not allowed to talk.  And to fill a minute of rapt attention and still silence, you talk.  You find yourself saying things you never articulated out loud.

I've found that I can balance being a working mother, but, damnit, it sometimes is just positively shitty.  Before I had her, things were clear: breast was best, of course I was going to work, no TV and only engaging toys, and I was going to read to my child every day and I was going to make homemade pureed sweet potatoes and quinoa and whatever else organic fare was trendy.  And now things are so very muddled to a murky grey and I can't believe there was a time when the resoluteness of my impending parenthood was so stark.  So I cling to what I can do, because there's a lot that I don't:  take the other day when I was lazy and plopped her on my lap and we both watched a steamy scene from The Vampire Diaries (her blue eyes wide as she sucked her pacifier gazing at the two main characters...well, going at it).  Also, the kid only gets a bath once a week.  This is very embarrassing but very true.

So I do what I can, and I've found there's one thing that makes me feel like a mother first and foremost during work.  There's one thing that makes me redeem myself just the slightest bit, that softens the blow of dropping her off at daycare all day, and that makes me feel close to her even when I'm in the city and she's in her infant room in the suburbs, and makes me forget that the last bath she has was eight days ago, and that is breastfeeding.

I know breastfeeding is not the only right choice, but for us it clicked.  I was very fortunate it came easily to us after the typical first-week "How the hell do I get this baby to stay on the boob?!" latching quandaries.  So I'm just going to talk about my experience with it, which is neither the right way nor the wrong way.

For my overnight conference everything I needed was no larger than a loaf of bread: I packed a small ziplock bag of make-up with my toothbrush and toothpaste and deodorant, a change of underwear, a hairbrush and a new shirt.  That was it.  It fit in my laptop bag.  My other bag, the larger one, had my breast pump with ice packs and extra bottles and flanges (the things that suction onto your boobs) and I was determined to make it work.  To walk through the door the following day with ice-cold milk, my womanliness dripping (almost literally) from me.  Being a new mom, and particularly (well, for me) a new working mom, has made me feel supremely inadequate in my motherhood.  I spend no more than an hour a day with Annie after work, and most of that time she is fussy and foul-tempered from a long day at daycare. So I cling to this: because I don't know 100% if I should be working (two elderly neighbors told me straight out I was making the wrong choice), and I don't know if we're doing enough tummy time (fine, we aren't), and I have a dark fear she may not have the deep, intense bond other babies have with their mothers, but at least I can do this for her. So I lugged that pump with me in the city and locked myself in a corner bathroom at the conference center and and turned the nob to max, thought of my love for that little girl, and turned that sucker on.

Do you know after a pumping session your nipples are a good half inch longer?

During lunch at the conference I called the hotel to confirm there was a fridge in my room.  "No." said the gentleman I spoke to.  "Can I have one?" I asked.  "Your room is too small," he replied.  I asked him to upgrade me.  He said the hotel was booked solid.  I then said, "It's for a medical reason," which is not truly a lie (perhaps?) but a tall tale, and I got my refrigerator.

But it had no freezer, and I needed to re-freeze my ice packs for the following day at the conference and traveling home.  I asked them to place my bag of ice packs in their restaurant freezer.  For good measure I added, "There's nothing funky in the bag, I swear."  Ten minutes later a hotel employee was at my door collecting my non-funky bag of ice packs.

I felt very motherly in that moment, even alone in my small hotel room in downtown Manhattan.

This baby gets more action than my husband.  (A lot more.)

Sicky McSickerton

My lord my body has to get into gear!  It’s like, “Maybe you decided to get off the couch and go to work, but sista, I’m still enjoying my 11 am showing of The View”.  I’ve been chronically sick now for over a month.  It started with a cold about two weeks prior to going back to work.  That slowly diminished and then I had food poisoning the weekend prior to starting (I still have no desire for Chinese food, which is saying a lot if you knew my fervent regard for Chinese take-out).  Once I started both Annie and I both got sick with another cold (I blame her for bringing it home, but I’m sure the child thinks otherwise).  And now: I have not spoken since last Thursday evening.  I have laryngitis.

I sound like an inebriated bullfrog when I try to talk, and Annie regards me with a stare that’s one part bemusement, and one part “Yo, Croaky!  Where’s my real mom?!”

I have a job where I sometimes shake a LOT of hands.  Annie goes to daycare with sick kids.  I guess we’re just a doomed lot.

Now, some photos...because that's what I become.  A mom who thrusts photos of her kid on you, poor reader.  Forgive me.

My favorites from the past week.

Making do



Annie's Valentine's Day greeting, courtesy of Matt.



Every day I put my heart – my everything – in daycare for 11 hours.  I hold my daughter tight and say, “You know your mommy loves you, right?”  How many working mothers have said this before me?

I had a spectacularly bad day at work last Thursday.  And then yesterday.  My job is harder than I remembered.  I cried.  I have now cried at every job I’ve held.  I’m not proud of this fact, but it is what it is: I am an emotional creature.  I thought for maybe 30 seconds, “I do not NEED THIS, I do not deserve this, and I’m going to quit this f’in job!” but then I settled down, took a long shower, and went to bed to just get up and do it all again.

I bring magazines to read on my train ride home, but end up just staring at the person's head in front of me.  I need a pause button: a timeout from my now life to visit my former life, just for an hour or two, where I had many less responsibilities.  Where I wasn't pumping breastmilk all day long, and where, if I wanted, I could leave work and head straight to bed. 

My day starts at 5:30 am when I rise and pump.  At 5:50 I then go to my bathroom and get dressed, put on my make-up, do my hair, brush my teeth and take my pills.  I do everything in the bathroom because Matt is still asleep, and because I'm stretched for time I have my outfit for the day already hanging on the door hook, and my shower already taken the night before.  At 6:15 I exit the bathroom and wake the baby, whom I nurse until 6:45 am.  I then pack my bottles for pumping, which Matt washed the night before, and her pre-filled bottles for daycare, and drive her to daycare.  There I unpack her bottles, unpack her, talk to her providers, sign her in, and head to the train station.  I'm at my desk in the city at 8:15 am.  An hour and fifteen minutes after I arrive, it's time to pump again.  I dutifully grab my pump parts and bottles and head to the fourth floor where they have a lactation room for working mothers.  I also pump around 12:30 pm and 3:30 pm. 

The baby is tired too.  Matt picks her up from daycare and she is either asleep or irate (or irate because she's so sleepy, presumably).  I nurse her for a good long while and then she's through with us.  "That's it!," she says.  "I had the boob and now I'm ready for bed!"  My little girl, who used to look me in the eye and smile and coo now gazes off into space with droopy eyelids.  Actually, she looks pretty stoned.  Her head bobs to the left, a little more to the left, and she quickly jerks it back up again, fighting her fatigue.

This morning my daughter smiled slightly at me, but beamed at Fran, who watches her at daycare.  I laughed and said I’d glad she’s finally getting used to daycare and that she likes it here (and that is so true), but cried on my way to the train station three minutes later. 

A tug and pull that doesn’t cease.    

Not that’s it’s all bad, because it certainly isn’t.  My long commute is my time.  Buying a coffee and drinking it at my desk is all me, too.  I have missed that.  I have missed conversing with my wonderful team members, and meeting my dear friend for lunch.  And the continuous churn of the pump in the lactation room isn’t all that bad, either: I’m proud she’s only had breastmilk and I feel closer to her as I fill the next day’s bottles. I used to tearfully tell Annie that I was doing all of this for her.  But I now know it’s for both of us.

So we’re making do: perhaps not gracefully and definitely not perfectly (and when was I ever graceful or perfect?!), and we both have our crying spells – me at my desk, her in her bouncer - but every morning when we pull into daycare I know both of us girls are making our way, together.  And I am proud.

Work tomorrow

The dichotomy of two very (white) things: one practical, one emotional.  My freezer milk stockpile, above (go me!), and my bear cub, below.

Tomorrow I return to work.  It's been a wrenching weekend (emotionally and literally): I had my first bout of food poisoning in my life starting on Friday evening.  Saturday was a feverish haze spent in the bathroom and shivering in bed.  Today is a bit better but I'm terrified about navigating my train commute sans bathroom (yikes!).

My hat's off to all working moms: I don't know how you do it, but I'm going to try my darndest.

Returning to work

Annie at two months (1/21/2012)

Busy season at my workplace has begun again.  I see coworkers' status updates ("Off to LAX!") and my chest tightens, I breathe heavier, and of course, I cry.   I am a very good crier and do it daily.  I do not want to go back to work, although I'm working on that.

I don't know how women do this: fight against basic biology, or I don't know, evolution.  This magnetic pull to stay with you child: to breathe them - just inhale them - all day.  To fight against every nurturing instinct.  Whatever you wish to call it.  Every part of me aches to be home with Annie, and lord help me I didn't know I could love this fiercely, but here I am sitting on the couch at nap time listening to "Annie's Song" by John Denver (I'm a bad cliche) and making myself miserable.  I'm a ball of spit-up (hers) and snot (mine), and  I think things like, "How can they understand her like I do?  I'm her MOM!" and I realize I'm just spouting hooey bologna because for the most part I'm just floundering myself, grasping at newborn straws.  Almost all of her cries end with me nursing to calm her, and I frustrate myself, knowing her caregivers can't do the same while I'm at work and I'm probably setting her up for daycare failure.  And because I'm neurotic I think about that: I am contributing to my child's eventual status as being the daycare delinquent because she bellows for breast milk on demand and I comply.  "Oh, that Annie," they'll sigh.  "She and her mom are a real piece of work.  Two codependent peas in a pod, those two."

My boss, a new working mother herself, told me, whatever I do, don't read the children's book "Owl Babies".  Of course, I Googled it on the spot and it's about three baby owls who wake up one night to find their mom missing, and during the course of the book they growing increasingly sad and anxious that she won't return, but she does, finally, after a nighttime hunting trip, and says she will always be there for them.  So I'm sitting there, reading this, and it's supposed to be good and therapeutic for kids who suffer from separation anxiety but all I can do is wail, "She's going to miss me!  She's going to think I've abandoned her!" to Matt, who has absolutely no qualms with putting her in daycare.  "I'm more worried about you," he said.

I am a mess.

And the funny thing is: I wasn't happy the first month holed up at home (talk about having your cake and eating it too).  I wasn't born a mother during her birth: for me, it was a learned gig these past two months.  Obviously, I still don't know what I'm doing - I'm been a mom for nine weeks for crying out loud! - but each passing day has become more and more a gift, until, suddenly, it's hard for me to recall the days before she was here.  This is my new natural.

That's not to say I don't miss normal adult things.  Oh, how I miss office gossip.  That's a big one.  I accost Matt nightly when he walks through the door.  "What's new?!  What's the OFFICE GOSSIP?!"  I seriously say this.  Matt is not one to gossip, but I think I'm a bad influence on him as he now comes home with a tidbit or two for me to chew on.  I'm voracious, though, and always want more.

And I miss the momentum a job brings.  I do not miss the work, but I miss how it got me out of bed and dressed everyday, onto a train, to a cubicle, and made me some money.  Now I'm sniffing yoga pants to see which ones are the freshest to wear on my big jaunt to the grocery store.

Matt says I'm like an old person now when they complain about all they have to do, but "all they have to do" usually is comprised of going to the post office and picking up a prescription.  He'll ask me what's on my and Annie's roster for the following day, and I'll actually say things like, "Oh, it's a busy day!  I have a doc appointment and then I was thinking of walking around Target or something."

That's not to say I'm not trying to get out of the house.  I have thought about infant yoga, but I'm already self-conscious enough walking into a yoga studio, so how the hell am I going to feel when Annie starts crying during downward dog?  Can I plop out my boob then?  I did find an infant massage course (yes, there is such a thing) in March that Matt and I may entertain.  And then the other week I was determined to meet other deliriously happy but frustrated moms so Annie and I hightailed it to our hospital's breastfeeding support group.  It did not go as planned.

I am an introvert but can put on a show if absolutely necessary (e.g. work functions).  When I arrived it was obvious most of the women knew one another and I just sat there like a big tool.  I wasn't sure what the protocol was until I saw they stripped down their kids and brought them to the lactation consultant running the show for the weekly weigh-in.  So, between you and me, I thought a lot about how I wanted to be perceived at this thing.  Thus, Annie was donning her Fuzzibunz.  For those not in the know, they are cloth diapers.  And for those really not in the know, yes, Matt and I are cloth diapering (so help me god when this kid starts eating solids).  The cloth thing was totally Matt's idea.  We use disposable on occasion (overnight trips, when she looks a bit irritated and I need to apply cream).  I thought, finally!, a good use of my crunchy granola mom cloth diapers!  I'll have the kiddo don them to this breastfeeding meeting where surely other crunchy moms will nod in approval!  I really thought this and since these diapers come in a slew of colors, chose a fashionable mint green for the meeting.

So the protocol is you hand your diaper-clad kid to the lactation consultant, remove the diaper while your child is in the lactation consultant's arms, and then she will place him or her onto the scale.  I'm not sure why the parent just doesn't plop the kid down, but that's how it goes.  So there I was, taking off Annie's fabulous green Fuzzibunz, and wouldn't you know it, she decides it would be a marvelous time to take a pee.  Onto the lactation consultant.  I start screeching and apologizing and holding the diaper under her to catch the urine, but it was really just a hopeless mess.  That's when the lactation consultant said nevermind, it's fine, but  "isn't she quite the pudge!"  The woman then placed Annie (poor thing was probably scared) onto the scale where she decided her work for the day wasn't done, and another good urination was in order.  The other women in the group laughed and one said, "Oh, what a newbie!  Well I guess she is christening the scale!"  I just stood there and laughed awkwardly.

We haven't been back since.

So here I am.  I go back to work in exactly two weeks.  My team has been amazing and gracious regarding my pregnancy and now my return (like taking all over my overnight trips this spring! Thank you, thank you, thank you!).  In fact, Annie and I visited the big city this past week to have lunch with them and attend a meeting.  I don't know if this is just my kid or completely normal, but her poops are high-velocity power squirts that can put a room at standstill.  Obviously, she graced us with one of these butt-blasters during the meeting.  You have to love that in a baby; she'll have her whole life to learn manners and what is proper.  When else can you just let it rip and look really pleased with yourself?

I really love that kid.

First snowfall (1/21/2012)

Workin' 9 to 5

This is the story of how Kathryn – sorta – got her groove back.  I’ve never worked for a company that had much more than 1,000 employees, so imagine my cultural shock working at an organization that has just shy of 30,000.  There is a cafeteria!  Omlettes and pancakes to order after the morning commute!  A gym!  (With laundry service no less!)  I work in a skyscraper!  (Well – a Philly skyscraper so let’s not get too excited.)  My cube has tons of space and even a visitor’s chair and a coat closet.  A coat closet in a cubicle, I say!  I have a window view (never mind my view is directly into another skyscraper and I have to turn around to see it, but I get to control the window blinds!)

 

Look, I went to school in Manhattan, had internships in Manhattan, and am not some Podunk hillbilly (well - not fully), but this girl has been living the suburban life a little too long.  There is nothing more exhilarating than the crush of the morning commute as I get off the train with headphones on: warm bodies rushing every which way, coffee in hand, street lights to be abided.  Now, I know the novelty of my commute will wear off.  Like, probably by tomorrow.  But right now, when I shut down for the night, turn up my music, and hop on that elevator, I am elated.  I am buoyant.  There is no better feeling to know I am making my way in the world – I am earning a living and standing on my own two feet – and I don’t need anyone’s support (unless it’s killing spiders).

 

And it’s not about being a bigwig with a bloated salary (both of which I am exceedingly far from), but it’s about buying the aged cheese, or the fancy lipstick (or at least having the option to).  It’s about saying, hey, I can afford to increase my 401(k) contribution and maybe we can pay this mortgage off in fifteen years in lieu of thirty.

 

Perhaps with a child my priorities will change, and we’ll decide on cutbacks so I can stay home or work closer to home.  A commute into the city with a job that requires extended travel is a lot, but it’s not worth thinking about now.  So this past week – as overwhelmed as I am – I just turn my headphones up as I push through the building’s revolving doors, face up, sun shining.

Prelude to Work

I don't know if it's pregnancy hormones, or Lady O herself, but my golly did I cry during Oprah's final bow yesterday. Over the years her "aha moments" did sometimes grate on me, and her admiration for Babs or Tommy Cruise, but her last goodbye was beautiful. The last time I regularly watched her show was in high school: me on the recliner, my childhood best friend on the couch, and I've only revisited her during these dog days of unemployment, but boy if she'd didn't grab me in again.

After almost three months of yearning for nothing but work, I'm suddenly - to my befuddlement - kinda scared! I start on Tuesday and I have not started a new job in five years. I am a creature of habit: I have my spot on the couch, my side of the bed, and (I did have) my mindless commute. I've glad to have the opportunity to use my brain and get my mind off another anxiety: the baby. When you don't particularly feel pregnant, nor do you particularly look pregnant, you start to wonder: that thing still in there?!

Last week my ob/gyn took several minutes to find the baby's heartbeat with her doppler. Last time it was instantaneous. She assured me this was normal, the baby moves, and that perhaps I should get an ultrasound to confirm all is alright, when, bam, there it was: tha-ump, tha-ump - so quick and rhythmic and beautiful.

I hope everyone has a spectacular Memorial Day weekend. Matt and I are going to the beach for a few days (the calm before the storm, I suppose); photos to follow (but of course)!

New Beginnings

I've wanted to write this post for quite a while, and I've thought about the tone in which I'd write it, or the language I'd use and all of those writer's flourishes that dance on so many of the blogs and pieces I adore. But now that pen is to paper (or, in my case, fingers to keyboard) no fabulous cheekiness is coming to me. No play on words or goofy sentiments, either. So, with that, I will say this, plainly but full of love, hope, and giddiness: I am pregnant (I have to say it again: I am pregnant!!!) and Matt and I couldn't be more happily terrified.

We have entered our second trimester and are due mid-November. We learned of the pregnancy the second week of March, with very little pomp and circumstance. I went for my blood test on a Friday morning (a week after I was laid off), and Matt planned to come home around 2 pm to take the results call with me. They always call after 2 pm, but that Friday the phone rang at 12:30 pm and the nurse said - I remember so clearly - "So, ya ever have a positive pregnancy test?".

We didn't celebrate that night, or the following few weeks. We tempered our expectations - my progesterone and estrogen levels were woefully low and I was being propped up on several supplements. But, my beta numbers (hCG - the pregnancy hormone) kept rising, and then we had an ultrasound and saw the yolk sac. Our next ultrasound we saw a smudge in the yolk sac. On our next ultrasound the smudge was now a shrimp, and was larger and had a heartbeat, and now, many weeks later, our smudge is a baby the size of a lemon who kicks, punches, and makes us hold our breath every time we see him or her on the ultrasound monitor.

As the weeks progressed, I felt more free to believe everything would be okay. I visited baby forums, read no less than 200 reviews of strollers on Babies R Us and Target.com and last week, as we entered our second trimester, Matt turned to me and said, "We have so much to do before the baby comes; we have to make a list!" There is always risk, and it is still early, but we've finally exhaled, and we have never been more happy.

Matt, being Matt, has named the baby "Cletus the Fetus". "How's Cletus today, K?!" Me, being me, usually snottily retorts with, "Well, our CHILD weighs an ounce, so it's not like I feel him wiggling around in there." Matt wants a boy, but only because he doesn't know what to do with a girl. He is scared of them and their pink and lace and temper tantrums. I have no gender expectations, but I do hope he or she has Matt's kindness, patience, joie de vivre, and perfect health, and what I'd like to think of as my strong sense of self and sardonic humor. I'd also like them to not inherent Matt's hairiness - well, that goes more so if the baby is a girl.

When it rains, it pours. I'm starting a new job in Philadelphia after Memorial Day (yes; it take a lot for that to be second-rate news!), and although nervous and a bit overwhelmed, I think I'm really kickin' ass these days. Of course, there are some hiccups: today my ob/gyn told me I really need to to control my rocketing weight (oops - I finally looked at the number on the scale after many appointments of eyes squeezed shut and, sadly, I have to admit, a few tears were shed), and then there's the whole thing of the world ending tomorrow on the 21st. Just when things were really starting to look up...

In my "real" life I am still keeping this news to close friends and family and there will be no Facebook announcement (now or later), but a few readers have reached out individually, and I'm so glad I can now share the news with everyone on the blog. I owe you a world of gratitude: however cheesy this sounds, your support and comments were rays of sunshine in my inbox, and I can only hope I can return the same happiness you have given me.

Singin' the Unemployment Blues

I have been unemployed a month.  A month isn't so long when you think about it, and I still punch out "Determined to enjoy this time off!!!" with three exclamation points in emails to friends and former colleagues and chirp "It is what it is!" when asked, but, when at home applying to jobs and watching Dr. Oz, it's apparent: I am officially down and out.  My special talent is getting an interview, even sometimes a second, and then never the offer.  Last week, while on Linkedin, I saw someone update their profile with their new title: a job I interviewed for.  Three interviews, really.  Usually when you are dismissed and rejected, you don't know who they opted for over you: it's a glorious ignorance.  This time I stared at the accepted woman's profile.  For ten minutes.  I read her accomplishments.   My failure was staring me in the face - a rather vibrant face with long chocolate hair and a smug smile (maybe I was reading into this a bit).  With my nose stuffy and my cheeks wet, I typed to Matt, "No one wants me!"  But he immediately responded with, "I want you."  and then "you'll find your match" which made me cry more. Because with every declination, I am disappointed in myself.  I'm embarrassed I'm not pulling my household weight. 

This post has taken so long to write because I get upset whenever I sit down to talk about my unemployment.  I've now had several interviews in which I was declined, and after each "thanks but no thanks" email my ego deflates just a bit more.  I've had poor luck, too: even when offered a contract position it was put on indefinite hold due to budgetary constraints.  After I told everyone.  And when I do interview it's invariably at a company that recently had lay-offs (you know, "strategic reductions") and their staff is over-worked to the tune of 11-hour days and constant travel and I think, "I just can't do this."  That happened last week at a company that boasts $12 billion in annual profit, but to what end?  

Maybe there are people who milk unemployment, but let me say this: there are many, many more of us who would take a drastic pay cut just to get out of the house and do something.  To contribute.  To feel like we add value again.

I'm Out!

My sentiments, exactly.

Today is my last day at work.  Talk about the last day of purgatory!

Catch you on the flip (unemployed, still wearing my pajamas at 2 PM) side!

Greek Dip with a Dollop of Grief

There is not much more demoralizing than applying to jobs that cap out at half your current salary (and that isn't too high), and still not getting a call.  I know, I know - "Welcome to the recession, Kathryn!" I say in a droll voice.  It's a race to the bottom in terms of benefits and income, and still jarring to see 30K admin jobs in Philadelphia that require an advanced degree and 5-8 years experience.  It's things like this that make me just sit and stare at my computer screen, exhale, and cry.  And I'm technically not even unemployed.  How's that for such a pathetic sense of self-pity?  My last day is this week but we're still waiting for the axe.  We just want to know.  We want finality to it all.  We want to leave the building with purpose.

I had my IVF transfer yesterday and was told to rest.  When I feel tears coming on I take deep breaths, curse my soon-to-be-former CEO and eat jelly beans.  I'm like a badass seven-year-old.  On a good note, the transfer went fine as did this cycle.  And fine is just what I need right now.

We froze 10 fertilized eggs, and implanted two eight-celled critters in my uterus yesterday.  Saucy and sizzlin', I know!  It was the most fruitful sex I've ever had.  Sorry - I lack a sense of boundaries when it comes to my nether regions.  But in all seriousness: this may be the closest to being pregnant Matt and I may ever get. And that's a startling thought.

After a morning of whimpering over admin jobs I'm not qualified for, I'm determined to relax.  And by relax I mean eat a big bowl of chana masala, light my lavender candle, and watch some Whose Wedding Is It, Anyway?.  I also think I'll share a delightful little ditty of a recipe I made a few weeks back for our neighborhood get together.  I know, I know - I never even mentioned it!  It came and went and it was a lackluster week: I was sick, found out I'm losing my job and we just started our fertility meds for this cycle.  I had grand visions of kicking culinary ass at this thing and showing these neighbors what us Hopkins can whip up, but life got in the way and I made due with a big veggie tray and dip, some bought tomato pies, and this number: a layered Greek dip (stole shamelessly from Closet Cooking).  There was still too much food - everyone brings a dish so I don't know what the heck I was worried about anyway.  I always make too much food; it's just my way.  Anyway, who doesn't like leftovers?

So here is a super simple Greek dip comprised of hummus, tzatziki, and diced cucumbers, tomatoes, feta and kalamata olives.  I want everyone to notice my artful arrangement, because, really, it's all I got at this point.  Since I piled high all the fixins', you can't really see the hummus, but it's there and makes the basis of the dip.  In the middle is a good cup of tzatziki, and then I sprinkled the rest like a feign.  It made a great presentation, and an excellent alternative to a staid ol' layered taco dip - you know what I'm sayin'?

Layered Greek Dip

courtesy of Closet Cooking

(Note: I did my own "non-recipe" recipes for the hummus and tzatziki but you can find links to both here.)

• 1 1/2 cups hummus
• 1 cup tzatziki
• 1 cup tomato (diced and mixed with 1 tablesoon lemon juice and 1/2 teaspoon oregano)
• 1/2 cup cucumber (cut into small pieces)
• 1/4 cup red onions (diced)
• 1/4 cup feta (crumbled)
• 1/4 cup kalamata olives (pitted and coarsely chopped)
• 1 handful mint (chopped)
• 4 whole wheat pitas (cut into triangles and toasted until just crispy)

Directions:
1. Assemble dip starting with the hummus and stacking each ingredient on top of the last.

Will Work For Sushi

Well...that's one way to put it.

The most praying I do is on the scale at the doctor’s office and walking into work: “Let’s hope this will be a good day!” Both of these pseudo-prayers are most definitely futile, unfortunately.

But lately something peculiar has been happening. Take last Saturday. It was raining and cold and Penny had to go for a walk, so I donned two sweatshirts, a canary yellow rains slicker and my trusty Eskimo boots and off we went to the river trail. The snow was still about 10 inches thick and we trudged slowly and silently (well – I did, she more or less hopped gracefully). The air was clear and crisp and the rain pitter pattered on my jacket. Penny trounced from one snowy mound to the other, looking back every thirty seconds or so at her pathetic owner (and if a dog can roll their eyes, she surely has the gift).

And even though it was cold, and raining, and I was huffin’ and puffin’ (and, yes) grunting, it was rather lovely, peaceful, and affirming. And it was the closest I’ve come to prayer in years.

These little moments have been positively delightful. Take Valentine’s morning: at 5:45 am I heard Matt shuffling around like a drunken moose. “What are you doing?” I asked. “I’m making you breakfast!”, he replied. Never mind I occasionally meet a friend at the gym with this morning being one of them. No worries, he said, we’ll have a quick breakfast. Which is what I did at 6:10 that morning in five minutes flat. Banana pancakes, coffee, and a quick kiss goodbye. It couldn’t have been sweeter.

I think of these quiet moments in times of strife, and this is one of them. It is confirmed: I am being laid off. No one knows when, except “soon”. When you are told your company is out of money during a last-minute night conference call, and that there are no other choices because no bank in their right mind will refinance us, and when your boss’s boss cries at this news, you know it’s bad. I saw the writing on the wall a while ago in unpaid bills, tales of excessive spending, and other dirty secrets that trickled down to my desk. No controls in place, no leadership, no fortitude, and this leaves us little people scrambling. When you know you’re going to be laid off you sulk, lose motivation, and wait…and wait. You wait for the ball to drop. For the other shoe to drop. You wait for another nighttime last-minute conference call announcing the inevitable.

There's not much I can do. (Well, except cry and then bitch and then sulk, all of which I do often.) I want answers - when? Is there severance? Will we even make payroll and will my PTO be paid out? I have almost 100 hours of PTO saved up (and for this, I now laugh) to add onto a maternity leave. Yes; big, boisterous laughs. And next week I have my IVF egg retrieval, followed by (I hope) the transfer. I'm trying not to complain, but it's not in my makeup. I am fortunate: if I give up the fertility stuff, going out to eat, and other extras, we will be fine. Maybe it's high time I practiced some big time budgetary restraint (But there is sushi to be eaten! And new dresses to be bought!) I am lucky I have a significant other who is employed, who has insurance I can jump onto, and who tolerates my aforementioned crying, bitching, and sulking.

But between all this crying, bitching, and sulking, I swear, I am having those little, transcendent moments. I'm not saying I'm having deep thoughts or anything, but it's a start. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some jobs that need apply'n.

Coming Home

Long time, no post, huh? I'm in San Francisco for business, and it's all much more sexy than it sounds (trust me). But I like saying that...."I'm in San Francisco for business....". I'll let it linger there on the tongue.

I do not have a job where I travel across the country, but by chance I am here, sitting in a hotel room (facing a highway and not the bay, alas), and taking stock of things. Traveling always puts me in a contemplative mood. I sometimes travel regionally for work and I relish the alone time. I think Matt does, too. You're never very alone with yourself and your thoughts in everyday life, you know? I like removing myself from my suburban life for a bit, even if it's just a late train ride from New York or a hotel in central Pennsylvania. I like missing home; it reminds me what good I have.

This trip is no different, and I needed to take stock. To breathe in. To exhale. I haven't had a deep breath in three months. I wish I dealt better with stress, but my body tightens and it's fight or flight all day long. And poor Matthew. Every night I cry and he looks on, helplessly. Matt is never stressed. It's a gift because I often am. But, he admits, he has it easy. He loves his job. He is in perfect health. Above all, he has the perfect wife (okay, okay, it's a joke!).

Stress and Crohn's do not mix well, but my intestines have behaved. Usually before a flight I run to the bathroom no less than three times, my nerves working their churning magic. I hate flying, and I hate the thought of limited bathroom access. But this week's flight I sat at the gate, eating my bagel and...was fine. This afternoon I have the window seat home. It's enough that my bowels constantly inconvenience me, but now I have to inconvenience two other people when I ask them to get up to use the bathroom? Those two innocent souls have no idea what they're in for.

I was at dinner with a dear friend last week. We talked about work, about my health, about my fruitless baby making, and how I thought I'd have more to show for myself by my late twenties. She is her early thirties and said, "I hated my twenties! Do you remember how depressed I was? I'm so much happier now." So now I think everyone has a late twenties rut, and agony likes company, right?

I'm enjoying how this trip put things in perspective and how much I want to walk through the front door. For me, that's where it begins, and ends.

If a girl places a chocolate cake in her cart, don't judge, okay?

Oh yeah, there's the good stuff.

Pictured: Wegman's "Ultimate Chocolate Cake"

It's a good thing I don't live with a worrier. Case in point: last night. laying in bed, I heard buzzing sounds. "Do you hear that?" I asked Matt. "Oh yeah, I saw a hornet in here earlier." Lovely.

And I won't get into the specifics, but I've been feeling the effects of the recession personally at my job for the past year. A lot of additional cutbacks were just initiated, leaving us bewildered, worried, and a bit poorer, and wondering how safe our jobs are (not very). Last week when I learned of all of this I announced our American dream was all over, we'd lose the house, and won't be able to care for our daughter (who, yes, is our dog...to each their own, eh?). I was hyperbolic, and I was taking no prisoners.

"And Matt, I know you think you're getting a computer for your birthday, but, well, in light of recent economic developments, you're getting an egg toaster, okay?" (Don't get me started on his silly egg toaster contraption.) Matt didn't miss a beat and said he wanted some Xbox games if I was going to rob him of his right to a speedy computer. Only if they're used, I said. Fine, he said. Deal; now go clear the dishes, will you?

While Matt was loading the plates and forks in the dishwasher and doing some financial calculations in his head, all the while saying we'd be fine and not to worry about it, I was already thinking about dinners comprised of tuna and mac and cheese, and oh, the horror, cutting back on my favorite designer boutique. And by "favorite designer boutique", I mean Target. Obviously. I looked at Penny and wondered if she could be a show dog, or a dog model for extra cash, and by golly, I think the old girl has it in her, if it wasn't for her coffee-brown teeth. "Roll over!" I demanded. She looked at me, tilting her head. "Come on, roll over!" This time she looked at my plate, with it's stray lettuce and dressing and a noodle or two. "Eat it now, Penny, before it's all gone," I said as I placed the leftovers on the tile.

"Oh no, here we go," said Matt. "Look we're fine, Kathryn. Okay?" I responded that we shouldn't have bought our two new rocking chairs, which were sitting on the porch, as if two chairs would save us from financial ruin. Then as I was rummaging in the refrigerator, I saw that Matt's lunch meat cost eight dollars. "Matthew, this is insane, your turkey breast is eight dollars!" And you know what the boy said? He said it's ALWAYS eight dollars. Aghast, I closed the frig door and sat down. "What else haven't you been telling me?"

"You need to calm down," he said. My uber-frugality was short-lived as this weekend at the market I indulged in a $4.50 fresh loaf of rosemary bread, $7 of blue cheese, and an "ultimate" chocolate cake from the bakery - a girl has needs, okay?! Matt, eyeing the cake, said, "Are you sure you want to..." and that's when I gave me a cold, hard stare and, "What, Matt, are you judging me?" In all fairness, just the night before I insisted 1) I need to get in shape and return to the gym after my gazillion month hiatus, and 2) we are poor. However, in my defense, I DID return to the gym that morning (and, oh, 40 minutes on an elliptical machine watching SOAPNet burns off an entire chocolate cake, right?), and Matt DID insist we were "okay" financially. I then added, for good measure, that this was a "hard time for me" and that "it's the little things like cake that brighten my day." He said okay, and I placed the cake in the cart. Sucker.

Buddy, I've got a sob story to tell you!

Today I broke down at work. I know this is corporate no-no 101, but I am just so exhausted. Thank god it wasn't in front of my boss (which I have done before, sadly enough - now that I think about it TWICE, in my five short professional years - please, give me an award!).

I am emotional. I cannot deny it. Any thoughtful, high-level disagreement I have is ruined by emotion. Maybe it's all the bad news about the economy I'm reading, but, when I was looking at my riddled-with-appointments Outlook calendar, I broke down. The last thing I would want, is for my manager - and my team - to think my work is compromised because of my disease. How can they not notice six appointments / PTO requests in three weeks?

The thing is, they are nothing but understanding - sublimely gracious and thoughtful - but who wants to be the girl who's out all the time? At least I don't look sick - I am strong and confident at work (well, except when I'm crying, of course).

Being realistic, my job is (currently) safe, as is Matt's, but who wouldn't get paranoid with these sensationalist headlines? So, with the current sleeplessness and pain, I've become a ball of stress. I keep pestering Matt about his company's pipeline (he's a consultant) and I've told Penny she can have no more Pupperoni's (her favorite, second only to Snausages) because "Mommy and Daddy cannot afford it". What have I become?!

Matt is his quiet, stoic self. At least I like to think he's stoic when he's standing there, looking off into the distance, silent. He may just be zoning out when I start complaining about the economy or how expensive pistachios are - who knows.

So I cried at my desk. It was a good, five minute ditty, and then I was done. I dried my eyes with paper napkins in my drawer, fixed my mascara (my mother says I wear too much mascara and have raccoon eyes - whatever) and went back to work. And you know what? It felt good. And that was that.

Nighttime musings on a crowded train

There’s something intrinsically beautiful about riding a train. I think it’s something about being a part of the collective and witnessing the human experience in front of you, behind you, and beside you.

I’m writing this on the 6:30 pm Amtrak from Penn Station, as I’m shakily barreling down the long torso of New Jersey toward Philadelphia’s 30th Street Station. I was in the Bronx at Fordham University’s Spring Career Fair, where I spent three hours gently dancing around the fact that my company – amongst so many others – had already filled our few internship positions. Crest-fallen finance and accounting majors shuffled from table to table – a venerable sea of black, grey and navy suits. (As a liberal arts major, I had to hide a very sadistic half-smile.)

Now I’m somewhere in central New Jersey. Towns from a train track all look the same. The same stop lights and barren nighttime office buildings. The same lights sprinkled about commuter parking lots that are still two-thirds full – how late do they all work?

And there’s the usual coterie of train mates. The businessman beside me – in a suit and tie – stroking his Blackberry. I hope he cannot read this. Then there’s the woman clucking loudly behind me. I gather she’s in sales and is very, very angry with a member of her team. His name is Dave Murphy. I know this because she spit it out at least a half-dozen times. I’m just glad I am not Dave Murphy. The older man in front of me is reading an Einstein biography; the type is reflected and illuminated in our shared window. The aging ticket agent walking the aisles knows many of the passengers. He bends over their seats as they joke about trivial newsmakers and unimportant time wasters.

All of this happening as the train nears Princeton and then Trenton, and finally home to Philadelphia.