I like to stay busy and working is a a great way for me to do so. The idea of having a day off without a plan to keep me preoccupied is absolute torture. Knowing this about myself, I made the decision early on in my pregnancy that I would work until I could no longer do so - either until the baby's arrival or until my body gives out on me.
Plus, my company offers its employees the flexibility of working from home, which I've been taking advantage of a lot lately. So really it's a no brainer!
Last week, while in my 38th week, I was feeling good and was in some desperate need of human contact. So, I made my way into the office. It was a pretty uneventful work day, until one of my trips to the lady's room led to an assault of the verbal kind. As I was exiting, a female colleague (and relatively new mom) entered.
The last and only time I interacted with this woman she accosted me in an elevator. It all started out pleasantly with a smile and nod. After some mild chitchat, she asked me if I'd spoken to my manager about my leave of absence plans. I thought it an odd question, but I've heard odder these days, so I responded truthfully that I hadn't gotten around to it yet. BIG MISTAKE. Within seconds, the rather pleasant-looking woman turned into a overly aggressive maniac. Her rant, in summary, lectured me on my "obligation" to understand my "rights" and to make sure I take advantage of everything "owed" to me.
The good little researcher I am, I was fully aware of my benefits. But, no longer interested in conversing with what my mind's eye had visually stereotyped as the hairy-armpitted feminist, I stayed mum and continued to pray for the elevator doors to open. When they finally did, I set off for the exit. Unfortunately, she walked in step with me - which wasn't too hard to do since I've become a waddling tortoise - and continued her lecture. With no other way to lose her, I held onto my belly and ran into oncoming traffic to cross the street.
For weeks I successfully avoided the grizzly libber, but trapped in the tiny entrance/exit of the lady's room there was no where for me to hide. So, politely, I smiled and gave my hellos, hoping I'd escape unscathed.
Blocking the door, she gave me the once over. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I swear I saw flames spark in her corneas. Resting her malicious eyes on my belly she said through gritted teeth, "What are you still doing here?" The smart-ass I can be, especially when in uncomfortable situations, I looked back to the toilets and said, "Likely for the same reasons you're here." That didn't win any points with her and so she began ranting - this time with real screaming:
"This company owes you disability leave for 2 weeks before your due date.... You are obligated not just for yourself, but for all of us to take advantage of this benefit.... You're going to ruin it for everyone else...."
I can respect people who are passionate about their beliefs, but I have zero tolerance on those who push their ideas and judgements on others - especially me. So, having had enough, I straightened my shoulders, pushed my belly forward (I use it as a weapon now and again - it's been great in scoring a seat on the trains) and roughly brushed passed her to get to the door. Once there, I turned and said, "Well, I guess I don't see my pregnancy as a disability. Why should I sit at home when there's nothing wrong with me."
Before I let her respond, I walked away - trembling. The little coward I am, I then spent the rest of the day going up and down the stairs just so I could use the facilities on another floor. Luckily, I haven't seen her since. But, I've been working from the safety of my home, too!
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
A mother? Really?
Oh. My. God. I'm going to be a mother.
When I say mother, I mean, like, a mom to a kid - a real one. A kid who needs to be cared for, like all the time. And by cared for, I guess that means making sure it eats, sleeps, shits and is kept out of harms way. But how in the world can I be responsible for a kid when there are days - more often than not - that I forget to eat, sleep or shit myself (sometimes all on the same day)?
My mother's a mother, my aunts are moms, my friends' moms are moms. Me? Not so much. It's like that Sesame Street game, which one of these doesn't belong here, where I'm the stiletto in a group of sport shoes. It just doesn't work!
Like Mr. Oh, you may be thinking, "And... this is just dawning on you now?" The answer: Y-E-S!
It hit me last Friday - out of the blue. I was sitting at my desk, totally engulfed in my latest assignment when all of a sudden a thought shoots through my mind: the critter moving inside me is a REAL, LIVE kid. And in a few short weeks, it's going to make its way out of my body (let's not ponder how that will happen) and it will be MY responsibility to care for it.
Are they out of their freakin' minds?
As the panic rose inside me, my breathing became shallow and if my huge belly wasn't blocking me, I would have thrown my head between my legs to prevent me from fainting. Instead, I practiced my ojai breath and repeated my mantra, "I can do it" over and over.
As determined as I was to believe the repetitive voice in my head, I knew there was no way I was even close to being able to "do it." What did I know? For 9 months I've avoided the reality of my situation, I tossed aside all the baby books given to me, I only half-listened (if that) to the unsolicited advice of other mothers, and I kept telling myself and anyone willing to listen that I'd figure it out in due time.
Well, due time is fast approaching and with less than 3 weeks to go, I don't see when the "figuring out" is going to happen!
Wishing for the comfort and safety of my bed, so life could pass me by, I packed up my belongings and headed home. As I made my way through the streets and trains, I passed a number of babies and kids with their moms (who looked and acted like real moms), which only added more fuel to my fire.
By the time I got home, there was no stopping the tears streaming down my face and I couldn't catch my breath. And, my mind had given up on my positive mantra and was replaced with angst-ridden questions that asked me how in the world I was going to pull this off.
By the time Mr. Oh returned from work, he found me in a puddle of tears and tissues. Cautiously, he asked if everything was okay, which I took as my cue to pepper him with question after question: how exactly were we going to be parents? what exactly did a kid need after it's born? why didn't either of us make the logical connection that pregnancy, in most cases, leads to a baby that has to be cared for by the people who created it? And so on.
Although Mr. Oh attempted to console me in a variety of ways, I was inconsolable. To avoid any further drama, Mr. Oh kept a safe distance from me and left me to deal with the doubting, anxious voices screaming inside my head.
When I say mother, I mean, like, a mom to a kid - a real one. A kid who needs to be cared for, like all the time. And by cared for, I guess that means making sure it eats, sleeps, shits and is kept out of harms way. But how in the world can I be responsible for a kid when there are days - more often than not - that I forget to eat, sleep or shit myself (sometimes all on the same day)?
My mother's a mother, my aunts are moms, my friends' moms are moms. Me? Not so much. It's like that Sesame Street game, which one of these doesn't belong here, where I'm the stiletto in a group of sport shoes. It just doesn't work!
Like Mr. Oh, you may be thinking, "And... this is just dawning on you now?" The answer: Y-E-S!
It hit me last Friday - out of the blue. I was sitting at my desk, totally engulfed in my latest assignment when all of a sudden a thought shoots through my mind: the critter moving inside me is a REAL, LIVE kid. And in a few short weeks, it's going to make its way out of my body (let's not ponder how that will happen) and it will be MY responsibility to care for it.
Are they out of their freakin' minds?
As the panic rose inside me, my breathing became shallow and if my huge belly wasn't blocking me, I would have thrown my head between my legs to prevent me from fainting. Instead, I practiced my ojai breath and repeated my mantra, "I can do it" over and over.
As determined as I was to believe the repetitive voice in my head, I knew there was no way I was even close to being able to "do it." What did I know? For 9 months I've avoided the reality of my situation, I tossed aside all the baby books given to me, I only half-listened (if that) to the unsolicited advice of other mothers, and I kept telling myself and anyone willing to listen that I'd figure it out in due time.
Well, due time is fast approaching and with less than 3 weeks to go, I don't see when the "figuring out" is going to happen!
Wishing for the comfort and safety of my bed, so life could pass me by, I packed up my belongings and headed home. As I made my way through the streets and trains, I passed a number of babies and kids with their moms (who looked and acted like real moms), which only added more fuel to my fire.
By the time I got home, there was no stopping the tears streaming down my face and I couldn't catch my breath. And, my mind had given up on my positive mantra and was replaced with angst-ridden questions that asked me how in the world I was going to pull this off.
By the time Mr. Oh returned from work, he found me in a puddle of tears and tissues. Cautiously, he asked if everything was okay, which I took as my cue to pepper him with question after question: how exactly were we going to be parents? what exactly did a kid need after it's born? why didn't either of us make the logical connection that pregnancy, in most cases, leads to a baby that has to be cared for by the people who created it? And so on.
Although Mr. Oh attempted to console me in a variety of ways, I was inconsolable. To avoid any further drama, Mr. Oh kept a safe distance from me and left me to deal with the doubting, anxious voices screaming inside my head.
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