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I'm meeting an old lover today.
He sounded great on the phone: successful, influential, professional.
All the traits that attracted me to him in the first place. A string
of "what-if's" float through my mind.
No, it's not a man that sets my pulse racing. It's an office. The
office I left to stay home with my son two years ago.
I'm there to discuss a consulting project with a department manager.
I clutch my briefcase tighter as I step off the atrium elevator onto
the third floor. It's abuzz with action. Sales reps pound out memos,
managers huddle in private conference rooms, secretaries in tailored
business suits juggle blinking phone lines.
Instantly I'm caught up in the romance of it all. I feel again the
sweet, heady intoxication of being at the centre of the action, the
thrill of being successful and important.
Only now I watch from outside, like a child with her nose pressed
against the candy store window. Teresa has a private office now. A
photo of her six-month old daughter -- who spends the day with her
grandmother -- sits on her desk. As we chat, a woman rushes in with
bad news from the printer. They're out of purple ink. Will Tuesday be
all right? Teresa pulls out a notebook. We need it by 2:30, she says.
The woman rushes off again.
Farther down the hall, Judy slips me a copy of the confidential memo
she's writing. Enrolment is down. Again. As chair of the Disenrolment
Task Force, she's one of the few people in the company who knows why.
Eileen has been promoted to manager and supervises 12 people. Thinner
now, and with a new perm, she radiates self-confidence. I pull in my
stomach to try to hide the 10 extra pounds I'm still carrying. I turn
left four rows from the window to look for my old cubicle. It's still
there. Someone else's name is on it now.
Back home, I wipe another cup of grape juice off the kitchen floor
and read "Little Duck's Moving Day" for the fifth time in a
row. I've traded my business clothes for jeans and a rumpled sweat
shirt. Here there are no promotions, no end-of-the-year bonuses. Not
even the bathroom is private.
And I wonder: have I thrown away my chance for success?
A voice at my knees interrupts my thoughts. "Hug Mama,"
says Lucas, wrapping his chubby arms around my legs. I lean down and
squeeze him back. The infatuation fades. Suddenly the office seems as
illusory as the false fronts of a Hollywood ghost town.
Here on the front lines of the Mommy Wars, it's not hard to see where
society has marshalled its heavy artillery. Money and prestige reward
those who make the politically correct choice. Yet the politically
correct choice isn't always the right choice, for us or our children.
The bottom line is that there's more to life than the bottom line.
Business is the opiate of the American people. The smell of fat
paychecks dulls our senses and makes us incapable of listening to our
best selves. Give me an office with my name on the door, and I'll
gladly sell my soul and throw in my first-born as well.
For women, the rewards of success are all the more seductive because
they weren't available just a generation ago. We're eager to escape
from lives of domestic drudgery and do something important. But,
let's face it, a private FAX line is hardly a lasting contribution to
world peace. Much of what happens in corporate offices is simply busy
work -- glamorous busy work to be sure, but busy work just the same.
I could go back to my job and feel I hadn't missed a beat. For all
the STATS and ASAPs, nothing's really changed.
I remember cleaning out my files after I resigned, tossing stacks of
URGENT, CONFIDENTIAL, AND TOP PRIORITY correspondence into the
recycling bin. One weighty file was devoted to the Communications
Strategic Planning Task Force. Six months of meetings, memos, and
resolutions. Then the vice president who chaired the task force was
laid off, and the whole project died. I had nothing to show for it
but a file I couldn't quite bear to throw out.
On the other hand, six months of rocking, nursing, and changing
diapers produces lasting and noticeable results. In six months, an
infant sits up. Another six months, and he's beginning to walk. Six
months more, and he's starting to talk. Suddenly he's not a baby anymore.
My son is a different person than he was two years ago. And so am I.
I've witnessed the everyday miracle of human development, been part
of the wonder of discovering Lucas. I've fed and dressed, worried and
laughed, comforted and cared. But most important of all, I was there.
The choices women face today are complex. But we can't afford to let
society define success for us. We must shake off our infatuation with
the business world and learn to listen to our hearts.
After two years away, I still feel the lure of the FAX machines and
business suits. But I can honestly say I'd rather talk to Lucas than
meet with VIPs, rather read Humpty Dumpty than study a top-secret
memo, rather eat peanut butter and jelly than dine in the company cafeteria.
So if you see my old lover, tell him this is good-bye. He wasn't
really my type anyway. |
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