The challenge of childcare

Any working mother will tell you that childcare is a challenge. Leaving your baby in the care of someone else is never easy and for some there are limited choices. We criticize the system regularly but the reality is not too bad - especially compared with some other countries. Daycares will take babies from 4 months and are subsidized. A full-time private daycare rarely costs more than 300 Euros a month ($500), plus a little extra for food. Public daycare is half that, and often has better facilities, although the supply comes nowhere near covering the demand. School starts at age 3 and is from 9am-5pm. A full-time, live-out nanny, although expensive, is not prohibitive, and can be a viable option for many double income couples. Throw grandparents who live close by into the mix, and you have some decent childcare options that don’t eat up an entire paycheck.
We decided early on that we wanted to go the route of a full-time nanny, at least for the first year. My husband’s family lives an hour and a half away – close enough for sporadic, emergency help, but too far for our day to day needs. Six months seemed too young for a daycare, and I liked the idea of having someone take care of Adam from home. If this person was also willing to do some housework and cooking, we could maximize the hours we were home to enjoy our baby, and minimize stress. Decision made, we turned to the hiring process.
For about a month, I interviewed around 20 people. Some were recommendations of recommendations. Most came from different agencies. People told me to trust my instinct, but that’s easier said than done when you’re doing something for the first time. Some of the candidates called me ‘mam’, and my husband ‘sir’, making us feel quite uncomfortable. Others were shy and it was difficult to get a realistic impression.
Finally we chose one girl…. simply because we liked her. She hadn’t worked in a house before, her only experience with babies was with her niece, thirteen years before, but we liked her. She seemed like a happy person, honest and easy-going, so even though she didn’t check all of our requirements, we offered her the job. Today, Adam greets her with a smile and pays little attention to me as I head out the door, cheerfully playing and sitting in her lap. What more could a working mother ask for?

"If I can't dance, I don't want to be a part of your revolution..."

Unlike Deirdre, I'm not yet planning to balance career and motherhood. I have just been accepted into a Masters program that will start in 3 months time, and will, in fact, be held on Saltspring Island. But that will not be full time, and although much work, will be manageable while still being a stay-at-home Mama.
Right now though, I want to talk about balance too. I DO relate to Deirdre in seeking a balance- the balance between Amy-as-a-Mother, and Amy-as-Amy.
People comment on my daughter's strong legs, saying "She could be a dancer". I am proud as punch. Yet niggling thoughts arise...
One of the reasons I am going back to school is to address my own desire to fuel my artist that all-too-often got put aside for the sake of academia, or working in a "real" job. When the "dancer" comment is made, I find myself thinking, "I, too, want to dance".
Which is actually a terribly exciting thought, and terrifying in the same moment. By seeing the possibilities that are endless for my daughter, and wanting to help her believe that she can realize any and all of her dreams, I have reawakened my own dreams too.
And I am not willing to live vicariously through my daughter. "Oh, you should do this because I never got to"...rather, I want to inspire her in my own embracing of life's opportunities.
So uh, yeah, that means I actually have to DO it.
I did a Beginner's Ballet class just over a month ago. I walked into the class with my old ballet slippers and nervous trepidation. I put the slippers on , and promptly took them off as I realized my feet have grown since I was 16 years old! I felt frumpy, my butt only just squished into the tights I put on, and I was royally dizzy when we did our turns portion of the class. I left thinking "Well, at least the classical music was beautiful".
Yet, as I went for a walk the next day, I felt fabulous. New muscles had begun to twitch. "Do this again, and soon!" they seemed to say to my body.
However, Mayana got sick, and then the week after that I travelled with her, and then two weeks later, with certified Mummy-brain (it is a real illness!), I got the day wrong for the class.
I give myself credit. I'm a Mother now, and I'm proud that role comes first for me right now. But I'm catching myself humming classical songs these days, I surreptitiously point my toes while standing in lines, and I think I'm going to go shopping for some new ballet slippers...heck, gotta look a little more professional for the next class, right?!

Back to work

Today marks the end of my first week back at work following six months maternity leave. Even though I acknowledge the ideal is probably some kind of version of part-time work, I decided to return full-time. Spanish law is such that had I wanted to reduce my hours, my company would have been required to oblige me, reducing my salary proportionally. Yet I wanted to give full-time a try – otherwise I would never know whether or not it was possible to find a decent balance between a career and family. I have a lot of things in my favour: a fabulous nanny who treats my son as if he were her own; a short commute, so minimum time is lost on the road; a good employer that offers a certain amount of flexibility; and finally, a very supportive husband who does his share of housework and childcare. With all this, if I couldn’t do it, I surmised, nobody could.
So how did it go? Well, it went okay… actually better than my expectations. I wasn’t crying in the bathroom, missing my baby, regretting my decision. I enjoyed seeing my co-workers again, dressing up in the mornings, using my brain. And I loved coming home in the evenings, seeing Adam, holding him, playing with him. Continuing to nurse his morning and night feeds ended up being a great decision. For a couple of hours a day, it’s as if I’m back on maternity leave. Yes, Monday was hard. I took a taxi to get home ten minutes earlier and didn’t even stop to pick up our mail. There was a minor hiccup on Tuesday when our nanny called me to tell me Adam was throwing up. But even that served to make me more optimistic: I was able to go home, nurse him, be with him for a bit, and return to work. I can be flexible and maybe, just maybe, I can be one of the lucky few who manages to find that elusive work-life balance and be happy.

Mother Goddesses are we...

My friend Justine has just had a baby girl, Lilah Sage. On Saturday I met her for the first time...a tiny koala bundle so perfectly nestled in her mother's bosom (I never thought I'd use the word "bosom", but now I'm a Mama, all sorts of strange grandmother-type words emerge from my lips!) I can't believe only 4 and a half months ago, my baby was that size.

We sat in Justine's campervan as she told us the story of her birth. Women need to do that, share birth stories. It heps us to enter through the portal into Motherhood. I know after my birth, which was loud and quiet, sometimes lucid, and other moments panic stricken, I wondered if I'd done it "right". Now I know as we share our stories, women empower one another to know they each did an amazing job. We are all powerful Goddesses in the birthing journey.

Later that evening, I danced around a bonfire with drums and singing happening all around as my baby's daddy held her sleeping at the periphery.

Singing...I sang a song as a gift for Justine's baby before I left the evening gathering. My mother and baby group have decided to sing at least one children's song each time we meet. And today, I taught myself on guitar some children's music my own father had played for me when I was little. The music hasn't died, as Don McLean once sang....no, for me, the babies that surround me are bringing it new and freshly alive.

A little boy...

There are some words that just mean more in your mother tongue, no matter how much you dominate your second or third language. 'I love you' is a perfect example. When I was around 20 weeks pregnant, I discovered one more. My husband and I had gone to the doctor’s office for another ultrasound, and this one would tell us the baby’s sex. In general with our doctor we spoke Catalan, switching to Spanish if there was something I needed clarified (my Spanish is slightly better than my Catalan). This was fine with me and after nine years in Barcelona, I was pretty fluent in both. Later that evening, both my husband and I shared the news with our families. There was a lot of excitement about our pregnancy – the first grandchild on both sides - and knowing the sex made it seem that little bit closer for everyone. When I told my mother she would be having a grandson, she got emotional, “a little boy”, she said, almost in wonder. It’s hard to explain, but hearing it said back to me, in my own language, made me emotional as well. After spending the whole day telling everyone in Spanish and Catalan that I was having a baby boy, saying it and hearing it in English was what really made the news feel real.

Getting pregnant (Amy)...

Oh shit. Oh OW! Oh shit.
"Sweetie, you okay? Need me to make you a cup of tea?" "Um, YES please." (My father is British, and tea is the answer for any woes in true Brit tradition!) Oh shit. Oh OWWW. Oh shit shit SHIT!
That's me on May 22nd, 2009. I'm sitting on the toilet in my Dad's Vancouver apartment after a painful day of getting ALL my wisdom teeth removed. I'm holding the pharmacy pregnancy test in my right hand- positive. Oh shit. In my left hand I'm holding the medication I'm supposed to be taking to help the agony of the new deep holes in my mouth. Only now I'm not sure I can take them without damaging this newly realized fetus in my womb. Oh OW!
I let my Dad make me some tea, oblivious to this new shocking discovery. Yes, shocking. My boyfriend and I have been together for only 4 months, and I'm working a $10-an-hour job at an Ayurvedic spa on Saltspring Island. Only a few months before, I'd had a high-paying job as a Program Coordinator at a University, yet left it after a spiritual revelation whilst visiting Saltspring on a yoga retreat. I'd heard a voice in a reiki session tell me to stay on the island.
So I did. I figured I was meant to explore my creativity. Or prepare to go back to school to focus on my career path.
But pregnant?!! Me, a Mom, now?!
I called my boyfriend, who was back on the island, about to go to a dance party. I broke the news cautiously. He cheered on the phone. I was less than sure.
I told him not to tell anyone until we discussed it together more. Did we think we were ready to do this?
I guess he did. He promptly called and told his parents right after he got off the phone with me.
Meanwhile, I suffered the weekend with my parents in silence...contemplating what I felt, feeling agony as I refused to take my pain medication for my teeth, and feeling angry at my boyfriend for telling his parents before we'd agreed to tell anyone.
Finally I told my Mom on the Sunday night, after we'd gone for a beautiful kayak ride. She'd noticed I was quieter than usual. I was confused. I was feeling happy, shock, fear, and the need to share all this emotion. I burst into tears as I told her. I thought she'd be concerned at this unplanned surprise, but instead she grinned and said, "Oh wow, that's wonderful!" I stopped crying- it was? Hmm.
Okay, so I was 30, I'd been eating healthy organic local island food and doing lots of yoga. My body was strong and I'd always wanted to be a Mama. My partner is a handsome East Indian man, and our baby would have such a beautiful cultural mix. Plus, he wanted to be a Dad...a blessing these days. It was true we were in a new relationship and we had lots of kinks to work out, but maybe this would help us to focus our lives and our future plans.
I decided to go for it. Okay...I'm in...here goes...but Oh shit, I'm going to need LOTS of tea!

Getting pregnant...

I guess it was about two years ago now that my husband and I started to contemplate having a baby. I have to admit that I was less than eager. It wasn't that I didn’t want children, but I knew that they would change everything and I preferred to think of it as something for the future. That year, however, I was turning 30 and suddenly the future was a lot closer. Well-meaning (but also slightly interfering) friends and acquaintances would tell me not to take too long as "the clock was ticking". I probably could have held up against the pressure better, if I didn’t secretly think they were right. I wanted children and I didn’t want to be too old having them. My husband was beginning to look longingly at babies in strollers and kids in the park. We shared ownership of a three bedroom apartment with our bank. We both had stable jobs, with good salaries. We had close friends who had already taken the plunge and eager grandparents-to-be. We were ready and I had run out of excuses. So with all that in mind, one month I stopped taking the pill and decided to let nature take its course.

I quickly realized I would have to learn patience (not one of my virtues). If I’m honest, I’m used to getting what I want and having to depend completely on forces beyond my control was a new feeling. For an obsessive planner (i.e. me), not being able to plan nine months down the road “just in case” was very difficult. In addition, there was the niggling worry that maybe we weren’t meant to conceive naturally. But, as per the norm for couples in their early thirties, a few months after stopping the pill, my period was late and I was pregnant.