So every October 15 I remember 10.15.1984 - the day I returned to work after becoming a mama. It was my very own personal D-Day, and I was on the lookout for attacks. I had spent nine weeks at home with my baby Kate and no one - I mean no one - knew what she needed better than me. I was instantly useful and important - two feelings virtually unknown to me up to that point, which is why, initially, I took to parenthood immediately and intensely. I had barely let her out of my sight and now I was leaving her, to go back to work, full-time, for what? Oh, that maddening commodity we call money. It felt like an invasion - a major threat I couldn't avert: others would take care of her in my absence. And then again, would others TAKE CARE OF HER in my absence? This is before those surveillance cameras and other mobile devices, remember.
I sobbed the first several days as I pulled away from my home, even though I had arranged for her to be brought to me at lunch time and for her day to start at 11 am and end at 10 pm.
I'm pretty sure I didn't earn my salt in those early weeks back to work, but slowly and with time, I figured it out and so did she. And nowadays I counsel my married, working girl on the pull - on the delicate challenge of earning a wage while yearning for home.