“Mrs. Loeb?”
The sound of a woman’s voice jars me out of my computer trance. Why is she asking for my mother-in-law?
“Mrs. Loeb? Hello?” The voice again, this time a little more insistent.
Oh, she is asking for me, not my mother in law…
“Oh, hi…yes?” I spit out. I look up to see a young woman in my doorway.
“Hi, I’m Abby. From Human Resources?” She is young, blond, and thin—what the inimitable Nora Ephron would have referred to as: “Your basic nightmare.” She has the sort of long, silky straight hair that neither time nor money can buy; just luck of the genetic lottery. I take in her Jimmy Choo’s, her Rolex watch, her (likely) Pilates toned body. Her youth. I was probably changing my daughter’s diaper when you were graduating from high school, I think. I bet you have no idea who Men at Work are, what a Trapper Keeper looks like.
“Just have some papers for you to sign when you get a chance,” she says, walking over to my desk, waving them in her hand.
“Um, ok,” I reply, quickly glancing at them. “But…I think I may have filled those out already. That other woman…Christine…at the front desk? I gave her my papers this morning.”
“Right,” she says, “I have those. These are different…for your 401K.” I detect a faint level of annoyance in her voice. She daintily drops the papers on my desk, and flashes a weak smile. I get a whiff of her tastefully elegant perfume. I notice how her slender hands set off her French manicure, which perfectly complements the large, yet tasteful diamond ring on her left hand. I know you, I think. You live on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Your fiancé works on Wall Street and your weekend nights are spent at trendy bars carousing with your equally gorgeous couple friends. You work-out at the gym at least four nights a week in preparation for your big, ridiculous wedding. Don’t worry, honey, I want to say… it all seems good now. But just wait: you’ll get married, have a baby, and quickly realize you can’t bear to be away from the baby. So you will stop working. You’ll get so wrapped up in new mommy/babyhood that you will convince yourself you are fulfilled, that it is enough…but one night, during a 3am feeding, when the diaper explodes along with your nipples and the baby won’t stop crying and your husband is fast asleep (as usual), you will suddenly stop and wonder: how exactly did I get here? Where is my neatly planned out schedule, my lunchtime cocktail, my Jimmy Choos? And that is when you will realize with a pain that is like grief that you have lost an essential piece of yourself, that the person you used to be is hidden somewhere inside the diaper genie along with the dirty diapers, and you are not sure if you have the strength to dig through it to try to find her.
In essence, you will be where I was a decade ago. Then, in a few more years, you will find yourself where I am now—“mom-back-at-work-after-having-kids.” It won’t be easy, I can tell you that. I decided to go back to work in part because I felt brain dead from years and years of Gymboree and potty training and birthday parties—and also because we needed the money. However, no one and nothing can fully prepare you for the insanity, juggling, and ridiculous lack of sleep that goes with being both a full time mother and a full time working person. There may be no words to describe this experience because none exist—it’s an entirely new construct, this idea that a woman can “do it all” without going a little crazy in the process. If you were to create a t-shirt of a “working mom” it might look like this: cup of coffee and work papers spilling out of one of her hands, a baby in the other, and a little thought bubble over her head that shows a lot of curse words. It still doesn’t quite compute that I am that woman now, and she is me. I am no longer a young woman working in an office like Abby (not that I ever was like her, really.) Instead of a blowout and a manicure, I now come to work with jelly stains on my blouse, legos in my pocket, and a thousand different kid-related things running through my mind: Did I remember to put Jake’s library book in his backpack? Did I sign that consent form for Jessica’s class trip? Is Zach going to be able to tie his shoelaces if they come undone? Maybe we should have just gone with Velcro again…
Sometimes I forget that I am actually here to work, and not just obsess over my kids while pretending to work. Granted, it is only my eighth day back, but I am still wondering how I will ever get back in the flow of work life, I don’t feel like I remotely understand anything about how this office works yet…and how can I? The interruptions! I forgot about “office interruptions. People constantly stop by to do/ask/tell you something. Just when I finally start to decode the company’s shared drive, another visitor appears in my doorway:
“Hey.”
It is William, my “assistant” i.e. another person I am faking it with. It doesn’t matter that I must be a good 15 or 16 years older than him, he still intimidates me. In my mind, he is an official “office person,” meaning he gets to work on time every day, doesn’t have playdoh anywhere on his clothes, and he doesn’t get lost on his way to the copy machine. In addition, whenever I ask him a question, even if it is a simple inquiry about a file or a phone call, he looks at me with a sort of sideways, disbelieving expression, as if he doesn’t quite understand what I am saying. I have gathered information on him though. I know he is hot for Kelly in marketing, but she is only interested in Patrick from production. Witnessing their interactions is another reminder of how being a young person working in an office is an entirely different thing than being a mom-who-is-back-at-work. For them, this is an exciting place filled with sexual tension and innuendo, where they obsess about timing their coffee breaks with their crushes. Although in my opinion, the coffee breaks seem kind of boring now, as they mostly consist of people gathering around someone’s phone, watching something that is supposed to be funny. Oh, and now they text each other during the day, too. What could they possibly be saying? Meet me in the bathroom in five minutes so we can text in there, too?
“Oh, hey!” I respond back to him, or, rather, to his head. Another thing: when co-workers come to your office to tell you whatever important information they feel they must relay to you, they only let their heads appear, keeping their bodies obscured from view.
“Just wanted to remind you about the meeting in ten minutes,” William says, pointing down the hallway. “In the conference room? Near the kitchen?”
“Oh, right,” I say, as if I actually remember where the conference room is. “Be there in a bit.”
William leaves and I jump straight into full-on panic mode. Meeting! In ten minutes! Of course I forgot. Why couldn’t he have reminded me earlier? It is clear he wants me to fail. He doesn’t like me. He is hoping I will get fired so he can go work for Jim, whose office is two doors down from mine. Jim lives in Brooklyn, doesn’t have kids, and is one of those naturally funny people who always make irreverent comments and jokes about obscure Japanese cartoons.
After finally finding the “meeting memo,” I make my way down one of the confusing, twisty hallways that run through the office, hoping that I will somehow locate the conference room. When I stumble upon it I see that it is already filled with “office people;” their coffee mugs, iPads and kindles placed neatly in front of them (still getting used to seeing electronic devices at meetings.) Most of them are speaking in quiet tones; some are looking expectantly at Elaine, my supervisor. I take a chair as far away from her as possible, and try to look busy reviewing the memo. I study it with such intensity that you might think it was the Ten Commandments.
“Ok, everyone, let’s get started,” Elaine says. My mind soon wonders off. I steal glances at the girl with red hair and trendy glasses who is sitting directly across from me. I need new glasses, I think. Mine are so old and not in style anymore…
“What are your thoughts, Emily?” I hear my name being spoken and I immediately feel like vomiting. Elaine is staring right at me, looking as if she expects me to come up with an intelligent answer. What are my thoughts? Hmm, well…I’d like to make spaghetti and meatballs tonight, but the pizza in the fridge is getting old, so it is probably the more practical choice… Oh wait, what?! I look up at the smart board to try to get an idea of what she might be talking about (I’m still not entirely sure how a smart board works.) I feel like I am back in high school and the teacher knows I have not done the assignment so she is picking on me.
“Oh, I am…nope, nothing to add, really.”
Elaine stares at me, looking as if she just tasted something bitter. Luckily, red-headed girl pipes in with a coherent response, and everyone stops staring at me. I can’t help but wonder why Elaine even bothered asking me anything. I am new! I scream in my head. I can’t get any work done because people keep interrupting me! I don’t want to sign any more papers or come to any more pointless meetings! Doesn’t anyone understand that I feel as though I hardly have an opinion about anything that doesn’t pertain to sleep training, the common-core curriculum, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? My brain has been hijacked by small people. I barely brushed my teeth for nine years. Why was I hired? Didn’t anyone see through me? It’s really your fault, people. I faked my way through the interview and now I am faking my way through everything else.
The meeting ends. As I make my way to the door, I pass Nick from marketing. He and I were briefly introduced on my second day, so now we do the smile and nod thing when we walk by each other in the hallway. He is a certified hipster: a yogi/vegan/guitarist who probably hangs out at poetry meetings in the East Village in his spare time. I would bet he has never come to work with jelly on his shirt. I think. He probably sleeps for 12 hours on the weekends and is still having a lot of hot sex. Just as I reach the door, I realize I left my pen on my chair (I am one of the few who actually brought a pen,) so I go back to retrieve it. When I turn around, I feel Nick’s eyes on me; specifically, on my bottom. No. I think. It isn’t possible. I don’t get checked out anymore. Not even by the dads at the playground (they know better,) or by the men who come to my house to fix various things (they really know better.) In the eyes of the male species I have become just a “mom”—maybe it is stamped on my forehead—I get called ma’am at the grocery store. I own t-shirts that are older than Abby. I drive a mini-van, for crying out loud. On the other hand, I had forgotten how work-slacks can give good butt, and the ones I have on today seemed to give particularly good butt. Maybe Nick noticed? Or maybe he is just thinking, why did they let that mom in here? Look at her, thinking she is hot stuff in her mom work-slacks.
As I make my way back to my office, trying to put thoughts of Nick’s possible assessment of my butt out of my head, I pass the communal printer. I remember I had forgotten to retrieve a document I had printed earlier in the day, and I spot it on the ground. Just as I am leaning over to pick it up, I let one loose. As in, I fart. Oh no… I pray. Please, please God. Don’t let anyone have heard, or even worse! Smelled it. I simply can’t handle this. I can’t be known as mom-back-at-work-after-having-kids-who-farted. Unfortunately, it’s a bad habit I’ve acquired. One secret of stay at home motherhood is that for the first time in our lives as women, we are able to fart whenever we want to. Whenever we want! We are finally freed from years of socialization that teaches us to hold it in, because it is just us and our baby now, and the baby doesn’t seem to mind. However, it can get a little out of control: we start to accidentally fart in public too—in stores and parks and movie theaters. In those situations we get good at leaving the scene of the fart crime pretty quickly, but here, in an office, there is no escape. I can feel myself start to tear up…I can’t believe I let my fart guard down. All I can do is slowly walk back to my office, trying not to look conspicuous, hoping that no one noticed.
I am somewhat comforted by the fact that a lot of office people are currently preparing lunch in the kitchen, so perhaps the smell of Chinese food leftovers will cancel out the damage. That is one nice thing I had forgotten about offices: lunch time! Delicious smells waft out of the kitchen starting at about noon every day. Real food, too, not cheese and crackers and apple wedges and turkey slices rolled up into little balls, but delicious stuff…leftovers from last night’s Indian restaurant, lasagna that someone’s mother made savory soups from the deli around the corner. However, I still can’t shake the fart thoughts and can’t focus on eating. How will I show my face again? I think. Was anybody near me when it happened? I think I want to go back to being just a mom.
I work myself into such a tizzy, replaying the scene over and over in my head, that I become convinced that Dan from publicity was probably right next to me when it happened (his desk is close to the printer.) He is surely telling everyone about it in the kitchen right now, and that is what they are all laughing about.
I escape to the bathroom.
As soon as I walk in, I hear a strange muffled sound coming from one of the stalls. When I get a little closer, I can hear a woman crying. I debate about what to do…maybe she wants privacy? Probably not, since she is crying in a public bathroom. I walk over to the partially open stall and look inside. I see Sue, who is a marketing manager, sitting on a closed toilet seat. She holds a cell phone in one hand and a torn-up tissue in the other. I don’t know much about her other than that she is really good at her job, she dresses well, and she has two teenage sons.
“Are you ok?” I meekly ask.
She looks up, trying to smile through her tears. “Oh, I’m ok. I just got some news about my son.”
I immediately tense up. “What is it?”
“It’s just that…oh, it seems silly.” She pauses while looking down at her hands. “He had entered this art competition awhile back, and we just found out that his painting didn’t place. I know he is going to be so disappointed…I’m just sad. Also…” She tries to laugh “I cc’d someone on an email today by mistake and…ohh!!…a bad day. It happens.”
I stare at her for a moment, not sure if this is really happening. I am relieved that her news is not that serious—no one is sick or injured—but mostly I am amazed by her vulnerability and honesty. Maybe moms really are all in this together, I think. The mom code is strong, and it breaks down a lot of walls—even “office” walls.
Alright, so…I farted. I don’t have a kindle or an iPad and I might have looked silly in the meeting today. Maybe those kinds of things happened to Sue when she went back to work after having her kids too. I bet if I asked her she might not even remember. Time does that. She would probably just laugh and say: “Oh yeah, it was hard,” but it’s not something she held on to or let define her. All that matters now is that she is a caring, involved mother who also excels at her job. It is not easy, and some days find us crying on a toilet seat, confiding in a stranger, but it is possible. That may be where I will end up too, if I am lucky enough.
The successful “working person” must still exist somewhere inside me, even if she has gone missing for a few years. I can find her again if I am patient enough. The best part is, no matter what kind of day I might have in the office—bad meetings and interruptions and farting—at the end of it, I will always board the train home and go back to being mom. Not mom-who-is-back-at-work-after-having-kids. Not a supermom who can “do it all.” Instead, I will simply slide back into the role that I cherish above everything else—even with its monotony and sleepless nights and stained clothing. I will get to be just a mom again, in all of its delicious glory.
About the author: Emily Loeb is a freelance writer and mom. Her most current essay appeared on Mamalode: http://mamalode.com/story/detail/separation-anxiety