By Laura Leinbach
@lauraleeme

On a sunny Saturday morning, the last weekend before my return to work from maternity leave, I sat in the stylist’s chair for my double-process color to turn my dark brown roots platinum blonde like the rest of my angled bob. I was in Megan’s chair instead of my usual girl’s. Cassie was on maternity leave, like me, but her planned three months off had stretched out longer while mine was ending Monday at exactly six weeks. I wished I could extend mine a few more weeks, but my paid time off was up, and the brand new hire I’d left to carry the load while I was out needed me back in the office.

“I can’t believe it’s already time for me to go back to work. Does Cassie know when she’s coming back yet?” I pried Megan. My hair was in good hands, but I missed Cassie. We had an easy camaraderie, just as comfortable with silence as chatting about babies and pop culture.

“Oh …” she hesitated, “She isn’t coming back.” I saw her eyes flick in the direction of Cassie’s chair. “She actually just emptied out her station last week. I’m sorry.” Her eyes came back to rest on me, expectant. 

“You don’t need to be sorry,” I assured her, despite the tug of disappointment. “I kinda had a feeling she wasn’t going to.” 

“Yeah … the plan was to be at the salon at least a few days a week, but then the time came and she decided to stay home with the baby,” Megan explained as, section by section, she worked bleach into my hair. “They were able to make it work with just Derek’s income.”

“Good for her. I’m glad she’s able to do what she wants.” I remembered Cassie talking about her plans before the baby was born, the sighs and “I dunnos” that hinted at her uncertainty.

“Yeah, we all understand. Of course you’d want to stay home and raise your baby instead of work.”

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and responded with a noncommittal “mm-hm.” But like the bleach on my head, the comment burned. Is that really what everyone thinks? That good moms want to stay home with their babies? Is there something wrong with me that I don’t? I stewed on it for the rest of the appointment.

Roots bleached and toned, bob trimmed and shaped, I paid my bill, tipped, and scheduled two more visits before making the short drive home to my three kids.

I walked in the door with nuggets I picked up at the drive-thru on the way for lunch, and my mom handed me the baby while giving me the rundown on what they’d been up to while I was out.

“Thanks so much for everything, I really appreciate it.” It’s no small task to ask someone to watch three kids four and under, even if it’s only for a couple hours.

“You know I’m happy to help and I love spending time with them.” She said, waving away my thank-you as she gathered up her things to leave.

I shifted the baby into one arm, wrangled the older two into their seats at the table, and served up the nuggets and fries. The sound and motion of home were a shock to my system after a quiet morning in the salon chair, and I was grateful for nap time when they were done eating. To my relief, even baby Darbie took a short nap in the Pack ‘n Play. We’d hit the halfway point, but it already felt like a full day. 

It seemed like I’d barely had time to catch my breath before all three were up again. Darbie was the first up, still eating around the clock to keep her newborn tummy full. When Logan’s cries announced the end of his nap, I shifted her sleeping body from my chest back to the Pack ‘n Play.

“Is Daddy home from work?” Gracie asked as I walked into her room with Logan on my hip.

“Yeah,” I replied. He’d gotten home from teaching Saturday morning karate classes just after they’d gone to sleep. “But now he’s outside mowing the lawn.” I settled them in the living room with snacks and Paw Patrol on the TV while I tackled washing dishes and baby bottles.

As Ryder and his team of pups zoomed around Adventure Bay, I looked over at Darbie, napping some more, and thought back to how I had pictured motherhood before actually having any kids. Of course I would stay home with them. Who else could raise them better? I would structure our days with a mix of developmental activities and free play. We’d go outside all the time, and screen time? Only in the smallest of doses.

I’d teach them to cook and play the piano and read before kindergarten. We’d go the minimalist route so the house wouldn’t be taken over by toys and baby gear, and they would learn to clean up after themselves from an early age. Keeping up with the laundry, cleaning, cooking, organizing, decorating, yardwork, and so on wouldn’t be a problem at all with all the time I’d have freed from a nine-to-five.

I was going to be the perfect stay-at-home mother.

***

When two pink lines appeared on a pregnancy test five and a half years ago, staying home wasn’t even a remote possibility financially, so I set aside the stay-at-home vision and took on the title of working mom. There was no hand-wringing or heartbreak at the change of plans. When it came down to it, I wasn’t as attached to that imaginary life as I thought. 

When friends and family asked how I was adjusting after my first maternity leave ended, I joked that working in an office was a vacation compared to taking care of a baby. “I get eight glorious hours of worrying about nobody but myself, an actual lunch break, hot coffee that stays that way, and bathroom breaks whenever I need them.” I didn’t cry that first time I dropped her off at daycare. Seeing Gracie’s sweet little face at pickup was the highlight of my day, but I didn’t feel like any less of a mother because I worked.

A year later, pregnant with Logan, I took Gracie along to my cousin’s bridal shower. An older woman who knew my mom came up to us and introduced herself. Noting my toddler and obvious baby bump, she asked the stereotypical questions: “When are you due?” “Is it a boy or a girl?” “How old is your first?”

And then she threw out a question I hadn’t heard before: “Are you a full-time mom?”

I did my best to look unoffended, but have doubts about my degree of success on that front. My reply, at least, was delivered with a smile, “Yep! Full-time mom and full-time employee.”

Inside, I was seething at what was implied: a working mom is not a mom full-time. Do people really think that? That I’m a part-time mom?

It feels like they do sometimes. As a brand new mom, I was desperate for “the village,” but wherever I turned looking for mom groups, it seemed my working mom status excluded me. MOPS groups apparently have an unwritten rule that meetings are held only at 9:30 a.m. on weekdays. The local Facebook mom groups were full of posts from women eager to hang out at the park, coffee shops, libraries but only on weekday mornings.

***

My six weeks of maternity leave were fast, but the next six weeks back at work felt like they passed in the blink of an eye. Has it really been that long? The inch of dark hair showing at my roots testifies to the passing of time. I flip forward a week in my Outlook calendar to find my hair appointment date and time: 9on Saturday morning.

A yellow envelope icon signals a new email in my inbox. It’s a notification that the posting for the opening in my department just went live. When I started this job in January, I was a department of one. By June, I’d been promoted and hired my first direct report—just in time for my maternity leave in July. Now we’re expecting to add one more to our team by the end of the year.

A little red flag on an email from earlier in the day reminds me of the article I’m supposed to read before the end of the week in preparation for the situational leadership class starting soon. As I read, I think about how the techniques described could be applied at home to my kids, and wonder how my parenting experience might make me a better manager. 

Later in the day, my phone lights up with a push notification for daycare. Darbie’s teacher posted photos on the private photo app they use to send snippets of the kids’ days to parents. The babies are arranged in a circle, sitting in bumbos and bouncers and held in laps. Books are propped or held by each infant. A smile spreads across my face to mirror the one I see on Darbie’s.

By 5 o’clock, my to-do list has shrunk considerably. If only my progress on home’s to-dos was half as impressive, we might have a clean house. I puzzle over the evening’s list as I drive from the office to daycare.

Inside the center, Gracie’s classroom is my first stop. As I pass by the karate mat (martial arts is integrated into the curriculum from the time kids turn 2), her Sensei stops me. “Gracie was awesome in class today. She’s loving her role as Senior Student,” she tells me. We chat a little more before I continue on to Pre-K.

I peek at the color-coded chart hung on the wall to see how Gracie’s teachers graded her behavior today. Green smiley. That’s my girl.

She’s at a pint-sized table coloring a rainbow zebra. One of her friends sees me before she does, “Gracie, your mom is here!” Gracie is up in a flash to show me her drawing and give me a hug. As we walk out of her class toward Logan’s, she tells me a story about the class guinea pig, Bradford.

“Bradford came outside today! He played on the playground just like we do. Miss Sandy put him in his ball and he went really fast, like run, run, run, run, run.”

We pause outside Toddler Two so I can sign out Logan. There are no kids or teachers inside though, they’re all out on the toddler playground. I grab Logan’s wet bag containing the day’s used cloth diapers and his lunchbox. A slip of paper pokes out of his rocket ship backpack. It’s a Panda Paw—an award for making a responsible, respectful, or safe choice. A note on the back explains, “Logan stopped playing to help a friend find his glasses without being asked. He found them and returned them to the friend.” My sweet boy.

Gracie and I continue on to the infant room to get Darbie. Her teacher gives me a quick recap of her day along with her “daily sheet” that records diaper changes, feedings, sleep times, and notes from the teachers. I glance at the classroom newsletter I pull from her cubbie before packing it into her diaper bag along with today’s empty bottles. It tells me what the babies are learning about this month and reminds parents to bring a light jacket every day for nature walks in the stroller.

Now that I’m saddled with the backpack and carrying Darbie in her car seat, I give Gracie Logan’s lunch box to carry in addition to her own. Our troupe heads outside toward the middle playground to collect Logan. He, too, had a great day, his teachers report. He bends over Darbie and waves, “Hi, bebbee!”

Gracie tells me more about her day during the drive home, and Logan interjects words here and there.

Three years ago, that woman at the bridal shower had asked about childcare too. “Does your mother watch her then? Or your husband’s?”

“Nope, she’s in daycare. We love it there.”

“Oh! Will the baby go too? What a shame he can’t stay home.”

Is it a shame that I work and my kids go to daycare? I don’t think so. 

Other people care for our kids while my husband and I work, but I am their mom full-time.

Guest essay written by Laura Leinbach. Laura is a full-time wife and mom of three who logs 40+ hour weeks as a marketing director and is slowly coming around to the idea that “work-life balance” doesn’t actually exist. Unread emails and red notification bubbles make her twitchy, and Starbucks lattes are her favorite little luxury. When she's not at the office or chasing after little ones, she flexes her creative muscles by writing, cooking, and taking photos. Follow along on Instagram and themakeitworkmom.com. 

Photo by Ashlee Gadd.