I read a very interesting article on Feministe this morning, about the decisions of mothers to work/stay at home and the struggle to find some sort of work/family balance that maintains happiness or, at the very least, a minimal amount of guilt and stress. And I’m sufficiently hopped up on misery, hormones and general fatigue that I’ll bite.

It’s no secret that the United States is not high on the world’s list of countries that mandate some sort of paid maternity leave. In fact, according to a link from the article, the United States is “…one of only five countries that does not provide or require employers to provide some form of paid maternity leave.”

While there is FMLA, or the Family and Medical Leave Act, which requires employers to give most workers (not just mothers) up to 12 weeks of job-protected leave for births, adoptions and certain other medical care, that leave is wholly unpaid. So while you are guaranteed your position back after 12 weeks, unless you have private or employer-provided short/long-term disability insurance, those 12 weeks come at your expense.

There are a few states that do provide some amount of short-term disability for maternity leave. Pennsylvania is not one of them. California is, and I believe Massachusetts, New Jersey, New York and Washington either do or are considering it.

Working in a global consulting firm, I have colleagues spread out across virtually every continent. Many of them are women and the majority of those women are mothers. I am wildly envious of the support their governments and/or employers provide to women in the UK, France, Germany, Canada, Sweden and Australia, to name a few. Paid leave can extend (in decreasing percentages) for up to a year in some cases, with additional unpaid leave available. 

My colleagues are shocked to discover that not only does the United States not have a mandated policy on paid maternity leave, that even the most generous employer (like mine) will provide only a limited number of weeks, which often needs to be augmented by saved vacation and sick time. But that paid leave only applies to full-time, salaried employees, of which I am not.

While I work a full-time gig at this global firm, I am a contractor, meaning I am actually an employee of a contracting agency, not the firm, and paid on an hourly basis. My agency takes care of taxes, has benefits and a 401K available, but there is no coverage for maternity leave. There are no paid sick days or vacation days in my job, and very few paid holidays. The six weeks of maternity leave I am planning to take starting July 28 has been meticulously scraped from my weekly paychecks during the last several months. Fortunately, my compensation has enabled me to save enough to cover all bills and expenses through mid-September in the absence of a regularly scheduled active paycheck. I’m already thinking I’ll try to work 10-15 hours a week after the first few weeks off, just to keep a little money coming in. When people ask me why I’m not taking more time off, I respond, “I simply cannot afford to take any more time.”

I have absolutely no problem being direct and forthcoming with executives of multi-billion dollar companies.

But I am absolutely unable to tell my housecleaner that her current work just isn’t all that great. Today I had to ask her to actually MOVE things when she dusted and I wanted the floor to swallow me whole.

WTF is up with that?

I never do memes (ah, don’t we all say that?). But in the spirit of procrastination from the work I need to do this morning, I took one from Erin.

1. What is in the back seat of your car right now? Car seat. A cajillion toddler toys, two maps, an umbrella, a tiny jean jacket and a box of tissues.

2. When was the last time you threw up? About 3 am Christmas eve…something about Christmas dinner didn’t agree. Broke my standing 10 year no vomit record. Dammit.

3. What’s your favorite curse word? Motherfucker. Apparently, it’s getting to be my son’s favorite as well. Might need to do something about that.

4. Name 3 people who made you smile today? Michael and Emerson and the woman on the phone who scheduled me for a massage on Saturday.

5. What were you doing at 8 am this morning? Picking up toys ahead of the cleaning lady’s arrival.

6. What were you doing 30 minutes ago? Checking email.

7. What will you be doing 3 hours from now? Probably checking email again.

8. Have you ever been to a strip club? Yep. I used to be the token straight girl at a weekly Lesbian Poker Night in DC. Tthey broke my strip club cherry.

9. What is the last thing you said aloud? I’d like to schedule a massage, please.

10. What is the best ice cream flavor? If you are nine months pregnant, the answer is YES. Otherwise, mint chocolate chip.

11. What was the last thing you had to drink? Decaf coffee.

13. What was the last thing you ate? A butter cookie.

14. Have you bought any new clothing items this week?  Does a new bra count?

15. When was the last time you ran? Like exercise, or like running after SOMEONE? Last time I ran was in February, when I was four months pregnant. Last time I ran after someone was probably last Wednesday when a certain toddler decided to haul ass through the mall.

16. What’s the last sporting event you watched? Phillies game on television

18. Who is the last person you emailed? A former co-worker at Law & Order: Amish Division for a lunch date.

19. Ever go camping? Yes. I prefer “cabining” much better. Or “Hyatting”

20. Do you have a tan? Uh, no. That would require actually going outside in the heat. Are you insane?

24. Do you drink your soda from a straw? Only at a food joint, if it comes in a paper cup.

25. What did your last IM say? “Ok, maybe at 11 am EDT? Would that work for you?”

26. Are you someone’s best friend? YES.

27. What are you doing tomorrow? Worky-work, busy bee.

28. Where is your mom right now? She’s at work in New Jersey. And probably none too happy about that.

29. Look to your left, what do you see? The family room and out the window into the backyard.

30. What color is your watch? I don’t wear a watch.

31. What do you think of when you think of Australia ? Beer. Boomarangs. Holy stereotypes, batman.

32. Would you consider plastic surgery? *looks down at stomach* Lord, yes.

33. What is your birthstone? Opal.

34. Do you go in at a fast food place or just hit the drive thru? Drive thru.

35.How many kids do you want? We thought two kids was the limit. Now that we know we are having two boys, we most likely will be adopting a third. This body is DONE. And the possibility of three boys? AIYEEEE!

36. Do you have a dog? No way, no interest. I have a toddler, an impending baby, a husband and five chickens. And only one in that motley crew actually poops on a potty with any regularity. That is enough to deal with.

37. Last person you talked to on the phone? Massage therapist.

38. Have you met anyone famous? Yes, famous to me, anyway.

39. Any plans today? Work, work, work.

40. How many states have you lived in? Let’s see, NJ, PA, DC and VA. Four.

41. Ever go to college? Yes. Trenton State College (eff that College of New Jersey noise)

42. Where are you right now? Home office.

43. Biggest annoyance in your life right now? The fact that this baby isn’t making any plans to budge anytime soon. Also, husband’s inability to fold the three foot pile of clothes next to his side of the bed with any sort of regularity.

44. Last song listened to? Ingrid Michaelson – The Way I Am.

46. Are you allergic to anything? Penicillin, I think. Also some cats.

47. Favorite pair of shoes you wear all the time? Flip-flops. Not because I love them, but they are the only things my sausage feet will fit into.

48. Are you jealous of anyone? Yes. Yes, I am.

50. Is anyone jealous of you? Hahahahhahahaha!

51. What time is it? 10:33 am

52. Do any of your friends have children? Yes.

53. Do you eat healthy? I ate extremely healthy until about month five of this pregnancy. And the last month or so are best to be forgotten in the annals of eating history. I figure I’ve got two more weeks before I have to give up my serious ice cream addiction.

54. What do you usually do during the day? I work in front of a computer. ALL. DAY.

55. Do you hate anyone right now? I don’t think so. But with the hormones, give it five minutes…I might change my mind.

56. Do you use the word ‘hello’ daily? Yes, I’m on the phone constantly for work.

58. How old will you be turning on your next birthday? 36… thanks for reminding me.

59. Have you ever been to Six Flags? Not since I was very young. I get sick on rides. See no-vomit record above.

60. How did you get one of your scars? Having one of 7,045 moles removed.

Ah pride! Refusing to use the maternity valet service, with my bladder ready to explode and the only parking spot requiring a five mile walk in 90 degree humidity. Pride, you bitch, I hope you get a nice case of the clap.

I should know better than to expect any definitive action when meeting with the midwives of my OBGYN practice. Internal check? Not necessary...increases risk of bacteria. All that hubbub about size and fluid?  It was shrugged it off as “still really normal,” nothing to be concerned with, nothing to do, nothing to see here, please pull around.

Pilot fish is measuring at 40 weeks, heart rate at 130. My blood pressure is 120/60 and I managed to pack on three pounds in a week, which might be water retention or it might be mint mocha frappuccinos…who’s to say?

I made it abundantly clear that I wasn’t going to wait until 41 weeks. No way am I going to risk going through another delivery like the last one. True to form, when I told her this, supported with all of my reasons, she just nodded sympathetically, but gave no indication of actually agreeing with me.

Hey, mom! How would you like to birth a head THIS BIG?

So, I’m going to struggle through another week until next appointment, which I’ve made with one of the doctors of the practice. We’ll see if I get a little more feedback than “do some squats and nipple stimulation in front of the television at night.” That should get the neighbors talking.

Hey, did everyone (at least here in the US) have a nice holiday weekend? We did here, except I do have to question the sanity of hosting a Fourth of July family barbecue while at 37 weeks. All those icy beers being passed under my nose – oh the agony. Then there were the next two days spent on the couch willing the swelling in my hands and feet to go down. Plus the added fun of constant Braxton Hicks contractions which I wanted to either slow the hell down or turn into something meaningful already. SHEESH.

And with that graceful segue, let’s talk about the current status of this pregnancy, because at this point it is filling every brain cell I have. Except for those cells occupied by thoughts of ice cream. I think a lot about ice cream. (Where mah husband at? I think it is time for another Rita run)

Last Tuesday I had my 36-37 week appointment. I was pronounced, yet again, “big” for not quite 37 weeks. Plus it felt like I had a lot of amniotic fluid, maybe more than I should. Fantastic. I didn’t know about that, but I knew my belly was very different this time…it’s high, tight and round (there’s a joke in there somewhere, but I can’t be assed). While the pilot fish moves a lot, I’m not getting the really painful elbow, foot and knee flailings I did before. Parts of my stomach feel very sore and overstretched. If you tapped me just the right way, my belly button might just possibly explode like an overripe cantaloupe. Or that Violet chick from the first Willy Wonka movie.

After the appointment, I was summarily trotted off for my quadrillionth ultrasound to check on size and fluid levels. And maybe look at the tire pressure and brake pads. As the tech commenced measuring the head, I merrily joked that I hoped this boy wasn’t the overachiever his brother was in the melon department because, HOO-BOY, I didn’t need to spend my post-partum weeks sitting on that amount of catgut again. I watched in horror as the numbers (measured in weeks) raced past the size for 37 weeks and settled around 40 weeks, 4 days. With an estimated current weight (with three weeks to go!) pronounced at around 8 lbs.

And then I blacked out.

Hey, give me a break. How many times in the past 2.5 years have I talked about what Emerson does?

People ask me if Emerson talks a lot for his age. Frankly, I have nothing to compare it to, so I don’t know what is considered “a lot of language” for a two and a half year old.  I know we are always talking to him and around him. We tried to never use baby talk. The talking thing was something Michael and I both had to really work at. We’re usually pretty quiet around the house and don’t readily chatter about every little thing, so it took a real effort for us to realize that Emerson wasn’t going to spontaneously burst into language through osmosis. But I guess our efforts have had some effect. Emerson has a decent vocabulary, usually talks in full sentences, even if his pronouns are a bit mixed up. (He refers to himself as “you” rather than “I”)

He also does and says things that we didn’t know he either knew about, or was paying attention to. Including all the stuff we’d rather he didn’t.  One big lesson we’ve learned…you can’t slip up ONCE on the things you say and do around toddlers. Especially the naughty things. Casually toss a piece of track onto the train table? Henceforth, all toys need to be thrown onto every surface. Surreptitiously lick the edge of your plate of the last delicious morsel of strawberry pie? Prepare for all plates to be licked. Use a bad word? Except to hear it. OFTEN. But ask them not to flush the toilet without permission? Somehow that information doesn’t compute, even after the 72nd reminder.

Yesterday we were curled up on his favorite place, my bed, and he laid his head down on my belly. “Baby brother.” He said, giving my belly a pat and a kiss. “Yep, that’s your baby brother.” He nodded solemnly, “When baby comes home to the people’s house…baby fusses and cries?”

I answered yes, that your brother will come home to our house and babies often cry because that’s how they tell you what they want. But I couldn’t figure out where the hell he learned that. I asked Michael, did you teach him that? He says no, thinks for a minute, then hits on it. Apparently, there is a show on Noggin about a family bringing a new baby home and all the things that go on with the baby and the big brother. Emerson picked it up and applied it to HIS baby brother. And they say toddlers don’t pick up new language from television.

Is it wrong that work has been so frantic and nonstop that I’ve actually said (out loud. To actual people…people at work. On a conference call) that I couldn’t wait to give birth, because giving birth, complete with pitocin and third-degree tear, would mean that my projects were officially over? Ok, maybe I left out the vaginal tearing part. But it was there in spirit.

While there is an epidural for labor, there is no known drug that can be inserted into my spine to make work days any shorter, less stressful or otherwise cause a pleasant numbing sensation for the frequent post-midnight candle-burning going on around here. I’m like a zombified, bitchy, mutated hippity-hop. Instead of eating brains, I inhale mint chocolate chip ice cream.

Notes from a summer pregnancy:

It sucks moldy donkey nuts. Enough said.

Actually, no, it’s not. When you are talking about being eight months pregnant in near 100 degree temperatures in June, it is not nearly enough.  Whoever came up with “bun in the oven” wasn’t shitting Dixie. I am literally being cooked from the inside out, like some bizarro Betty Crocker convection oven. I swear, my internal organs are sweating Right. Now.

December 2005, temperature in the house, 55 degrees:
Husband: Shivering in multi-layered wool sweaters, wool socks and (I kid you not) wool hat.
Me: Just barely comfortable in a t-shirt, shorts and bare feet.
Me: Touch that thermostat or even think about the fireplace and you are a dead man. Suck it up, here’s a parka.

June 2008, temperature in the house: 55 degrees:
Husband: Huddled in blankets and fleece slippers.
Me: Absolutely melting in a tank top and shorts.
Me: Touch that air conditioner and you are a dead man. Suck it up, nancy, don’t you have a parka somewhere?

Household mantra: The pregnant woman is always right. And if she’s not? STFU. She is now and you will like it.

I’m a little under 36 weeks now, and absolutely huge. That’s not dramatics, here, I’m serious. Despite the fact that I started about 5 or so pounds heavier than last pregnancy, I’m about 7-9 pounds behind.  But, somehow, that hasn’t registered to the pilot fish who, in the past four weeks, has grown to freakish proportions. The t-shirt I wore to the hospital last time around is now insufficient in hiding a generous swath of scary white flesh. Last last, the midwife measured my enormous gut a few more times than necessary, muttering “that can’t be right.” Not a good sign for someone whose last spawn was 8 lbs, 9 oz with a head like a watermelon. Bets are this kid is going to be bigger than Emerson. And then my mother cheerfully reminded my of my 9 lb, 4 oz status at birth, and my mother’s own distinction of being over 10 lbs at birth.  Aw, thanks mom.

I wonder about the chances of being administered an epidural upon arrival at the hospital. Let’s just cross the shortest distance between A and me screaming profanities at the sweet Mennonite nurses as I attempt to pass an SUV through my cooch, shall we? 

AIM conversation:

Her: So I have a question about that footnote 10 on page 7.

Me:  Wait! What file do you have? In my version, footnote 10 is on page 7!

Her: Yes. Page 7. That’s what I said.

Me: Oh, you did. I’m a dolt.

Me: I was thinking “page 9.” For absolutely no reason.

Her: Because you have 1,000,000 things going on!

Me: You know, there’s a good quote from “Airplane” to insert here.

Me: “Looks like a picked the wrong week to stop sniffing glue.”

Me: Because I’m classy like that.

Me: I mean, why waste time quoting Whitman when you’ve got a pocketful of “Family Guy?”

Her: Exactly.