Can we stop calling maternity leave a “vacation”?
I have a newborn and a three-year-old. I worked until the day before I had each of them, and then- only after I had gone through two long labors and deliveries (and the fun that comes with the aftermath), did I begin my maternity leave.
Leading up to both maternity leaves, fellow professionals would ask if I was ready for my “time off.” Others would say they were jealous that I could “check out” for a few months. And then there were those who would say “enjoy your vacation.”
The only thing my maternity leave has in common with a vacation is that I will cry when it is over. Otherwise, this is the complete opposite of a vacation. When I think about vacation, I think about relaxing. Maybe I’ll get to read a book or watch a movie. If it’s a vacation without kids, I think about sleeping. When I think about vacation, I envision restaurants where other people cook for me and hotel rooms where people clean-up for me. I get to make memories with my kids, which they will hopefully cherish in years to come. When I think about vacation, I am inherently at ease.
On maternity leave, I am lucky when I sleep for more than two hours at a time. I consider it a gift if I have a single cup of coffee without forgetting about it four times throughout the day. I feel as if I’ve won the lottery if I am able to take a 5-minute shower without an audience. I haven’t read a single book, and I’ve hardly watched a 30 minute show without interruption. I am the opposite of being at ease. I am constantly on edge.
Forget about the mess that is 6am-8am, while trying to get my toddler ready for her day. That’s a story for another day (and was already a blog on its own!). But let’s start at 9am, when on vacation, I’d be setting up my lounge chair at the beach. Instead, I commence a newborn feeding. It takes me an average of 40 minutes to feed my son. I put him down and begin the real work. I wash bottles and pump parts and dishes from my daughter’s breakfast. I’m breastfeeding, but I would like to have some semblance of a life without being on call every 2-4 hours, so I am also pumping. Pumping is another 20 minutes, at a minimum. At best it’s now 10:30am. I start to collect the laundry. I’m distracted by my daughter’s bedroom, which looks like a teenager tried on 72 outfits before going to school. (Oh wait, she did.). I start to make her bed. The baby starts fussing. I ask him to hold off on his crying, but no dice. I’ve made her bed, but I stepped on six babydolls to get back to the baby. I hold him. I beg him to stop crying. I remind myself that he is supposed to be my only priority right now. He finally gives in to me. I put him back down. I see the pile of unwritten thank you notes on my kitchen counter. I decide I’m going to focus, sit down and write them. All of our friends and family were so generous, the least we can do is thank them. I write one thank you. I open my phone to find the address I need, and I’m distracted by the 6 text messages and 4 emails I haven’t answered. I do so. As I move on to the next thank-you note, the baby starts crying again. I look at the clock. It’s 12pm. He’s due for his next feeding. Ok, I get that done and then I can focus. I feed him. He falls asleep, so I pump for a short while. I wash the bottles and pump parts. It’s now 1:15pm. I haven’t eaten breakfast. Or lunch. I decide to make myself something quickly. I realize the dishwasher hasn’t been emptied. Do that. Reload it with everything that’s in the sink. I now see we have no groceries. Make a mental list of everything we need. Make myself “brunch,” which is nothing like the brunch I’d be having on vacation. Back to collecting all the laundry. I hear the baby again—he has had a blowout that requires not just a new diaper, but a new outfit, and the bouncer has to be cleaned. Do that. It’s now 2:30pm. I promised myself we would go for a walk today because it’s so nice out. I change into something that’s socially acceptable (clean yoga pants), and I check the diaper bag for the necessities. I am putting my shoes on, when the baby starts wailing. How is it already time for him to eat again? He’s had three meals in the time I had less than one. I feed him. I change his diaper. I get him ready for our walk. It’s now 3:45pm. I have one hour until it’s time to get his sister.
We walk. Except it’s nothing like a walk on a beach. It’s a walk where my mind wanders to my mental to do list, and I spend all of the time beating myself up for the things I cannot seem to accomplish. Why can’t I get anything done?? How do the days escape me?
We pick up Brielle and go to the park. She is upset because I brought her the wrong snack. There is yelling and crying. There is apologizing and hugging. I’m unsure if it’s a parenting win or a parenting fail, but we’ve moved on.
As we head home, I realize we have nothing on the agenda for dinner. I’m thankful for the Seamless App (and I am sure Seamless is thankful for me). We get home at 6:30p.m. (which would be happy hour on vacation) and the baby is due to be fed. I feed him. We get baths accomplished, which is a circus act. Bedtime for the toddler- another circus act, but one that involves rings of fire, throwing knives, and a walk along a tight rope.
It’s now 9:00 p.m., and I can barely keep my eyes open or form coherent sentences to have a conversation with my husband. I’m beat. Mentally, physically, and emotionally drained. I will feed the baby once more before I crash, and I will feed him two more times before my toddler (and husband) wake up to start this Groundhog Day all over again.
I may not be showing up at the office, but I assure you this is work. This is real, hard, challenging work. It’s not “time off.” I’m not “checked out.” And it’s hardly a vacation.