making work, work

I had originally thought the WAHM thing was an advantage. Make my own hours, not be far from the babe. But as many readers pointed out, trying to get work done at home, with a baby, may precisely be the problem.

For now, I’ve struck a deal with that one client where I won’t have to do the interviews, which allows me to just focus on the writing — do-able on nights and weekends (like a cell phone free calling plan). Which is great. Except for that’s when I’d like to be sleeping. Or blogging. Of course. Not that I’m ungrateful for the work. I’m not. How’s that for a quadruple negative? Want to hire me to write and edit YOUR stuff?

Yesterday, I left the babe for over four hours to do a different kind of work. My improv theater mentor was in town, teaching a 12-hour weekend workshop. I deliberated long over whether to take it. But I just couldn’t imagine taking that much time away from the boy. Not to mention that the first day’s hours were 4-7 p.m. Prime arsenic time, as we’ve previously discussed.

And the second day ran five hours, 10-3, which would have been tricky, and required either the schlepping of the not-so-portable pump, or having my baby brought to me midday, as if in a sedan chair, on a camel, except I’m the camel with the milk-filled humps.

So I wasn’t going to go at all. And then I showed up, the second afternoon, at the after-class party. A chance for all to spend more time with the folks who’d flown in from places afar (New Mexico, Canada), and to, you know, socialize.

I’ve been part of this particular improv community since 1996. Known everyone at that party since either my first workshop, or theirs, pretty much. It was the boy’s first time meeting many of them, including my teacher.

I had stopped improvising in my late second trimester. I didn’t have the physical stamina for it, or the mental interest. I was doing my own kind of physical improv, inside. In addition, I’d never been terribly confident about my skills as an improviser. I’d show up, take the workshops, practice, perform, but inevitably I’d feel like I just didn’t really get it. An odd kind of grinder I kept throwing myself into. Attracted to the work, and emotionally macerated by it.

So I wasn’t in a hurry to go back. Mom-hood being a great excuse.

At the party, people fussed over me. “You are really missed,” — they said, my teacher said. My teacher invited me to participate for just the third day.

Seeing the glow on the faces of my friends, that many-hours-of-improvising-together glow, I wanted me some. I asked husband if I could do it. I knew I had several ounces of milk in the fridge. Pumping for perhaps this very eventuality. He said yes. I said yes.

At the party, people fussed over the baby. “He’s so cute!” said my teacher, “He doesn’t look like either one of you!” she joked. He was tired, wasn’t up for being passed around. So I sat on the couch, held him in my lap. He fell asleep.

“Motherhood has changed you,” my teacher said. “I’ve never seen you be so quiet for so long.”

It’s true. I’m usually a very talkative person. I’m also perhaps one of the most talkative practitioners of the form; almost compulsively adding my two-plus cents to class discussions. I’d even helped edit my teacher’s second book, because of my known capacity to “articulate.”

But I sat, quietly. The dense weight of the boy soft against my chest. As the party wore on, I noticed the bulk of the people had drifted to the dining room; sitting around the table to engage in the luck of the pot — pizza, singapore-style stir fry, sushi.

And I had that feeling. Of being different. These people don’t have to care for little babies. Most of them don’t have children. They experience what is now to me an unimaginable freedom in how they can choose to spend their time. I’m not even free to get up from the couch (if I want the baby to keep sleeping).

In the last four years, I’ve joined two different tribes. First, the couplehood tribe, which — after a lifetime of barely ever having a relationship — really threw my friendships for a loop. Not only was I not at all as available as I’d once been, but now I needed “couple friends,” too. It took at least a year of the obligatory disappearing into the relationship and resurfacing, to reconnect with my friends, find the spaces for the single friends, girls nights out, to balance that with the nesting that was happening in my life.

I think I was more prepared for the couplehood shift than for how motherhood would make me feel different. Separate. I should have guessed from how much I preferred the company of other pregnant women during my pregnancy. It’s similar now. Not that I don’t love my single or childless friends. It’s just that they have places to go, things to do. When I was childless, there was only so much pleasure I myself could derive from hanging out with babies. (I’m really not a “baby person.”)

After a time in our presence, I think I see that glazed-eyed look in other people. Or the baby cries, and thus socializing ends.

Now, I’m most comfortable with other new moms. My people.

So it was like time travel when, yesterday, I put on my stretchy clothes, walked away from man and baby, and drove off to the studio to practice improv with my friends.

I wore my post-natal power outfit: A trapeze-style top and stretchy skirt over bell-bottomy yoga pants, all black; hair in a low ponytail. The top and skirt are re-purposed maternity items. The first time I wore this outfit in public was for my moms group, probably around the third week. I showed up in said attire, the boy compact on my chest in the Bjorn, my feet freshly pedicured.

The moderator of the group said admiringly, “You look so put together!” — which matched how I felt. Pretty, and like I could face things for the first time.

I felt that way yesterday too. I received many compliments in fact, on my lovely outfit. And when my improvising came out pretty too, I was complimented for being both talented and fashionable.

I could not have imagined a more welcoming and confidence restoring experience.

There’s another piece of the story. How, because of the way pregnancy and motherhood have changed me, I haven’t had the energy to try-too-hard, which has lent my improvisations a calmer, more grounded quality; rather than the manic mode I’ve suffered in, in the past.

So, thank you Jonah.

And I doubt that anyone noticed the way I continually, surreptitiously, checked the sides of my breasts with the heels of my hands, for engorgement. Press press.

At the break, one friend asked me if I missed the boy. Honestly, I didn’t.

For all the agony I’d experienced the other day, trying to work while my baby was in another room, on this day, I felt free. Maybe knowing that Jonah was with his dad made it easier. That and doing something I loved. If only I could get paid to take improv workshops. (Can get paid to teach them; am accredited to teach; will have to pursue this…) Maybe a better childcare situation would free me up — physically AND emotionally — on days when Scott is not available.

Although I was a little sad too. Yesterday reminded me what it felt like to be old me. Old me took lots of workshops for weeks at a time, improvised with friends late into the night. I miss that freedom.

When class was over, I practically flew out the door, needing to get home to feed or pump. Next time I’ll have to bring the electric suck-suck with me.

When I got home, the boy looked different. Older. I almost didn’t recognize him for a moment. Who are you? Who am I?