That year, I taught all my classes between nine and noon, because at two months of age that was the longest my younger daughter could go between feedings. At twelve on the dot my family would appear on the campus of the historically black college, my husband at the wheel of our red and white 1972 VW bus, and the two-year-old and the baby in their infant seats. I would jump in, throw my briefcase in the back, grab the baby, strap myself into the front seat, and unbutton my blouse.
With the baby sucking away contentedly, my husband would hurry us all home before the toddler’s blood sugar took a sudden dive and Armageddon ensued. We would run into the house and he would put the baby down for her nap while I fed the firstborn. I can’t remember what her lunches consisted of—I assume that they were some version of Gerber’s toddler menus, this being before the days of homemade infant food. What I can remember is how ravenous I was while I charmed my daughter into accepting one more spoonful of her “turkey dinner with peas and carrots.”
I don’t know how hungry football players feel after a game, but I suspect that their hunger doesn’t hold a candle to the hunger of a woman who has just nursed a baby. I remember looking at that jar of Gerber’s and using all my will power to keep from snatching it up and gobbling its contents. Does any creature on the planet eat more slowly than a toddler, each spoonful interrupted with smears and spills and reflections on life, the universe, and everything? And the pottying and the undressing and the patting on the back and the quiet closing of the bedroom door still ahead before I could get to my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
And then, if the gods were merciful, my own longed-for nap.
Those were such earthy, embodied days. Life was a round of food and drink and breast milk and baby poop and the always too brief bliss of sleep. And the endless rush—to get the kids dressed for daycare, to get myself to class in time, to get the next day’s lectures ready, papers graded, books reread. What did my poor students think as I ran breathless into class, and then rushed out again at twelve on the dot? I wore blouses in dark patterned fabrics that would obscure any accidental milk leaks, which became increasingly likely as the hour of noon grew near…
After a weekend at home, though, teaching felt like a respite. Once I entered the classroom, I knew that until the red VW drove up I would be able to indulge in what in those days was a rare luxury for me: the ability to think two thoughts in a row. The teaching didn’t so much feel like work as a kind of break from the rush and rigors of mothering. I was grateful for my job, which allowed me to have a life of the mind to balance the life of nurture and procreation.
I had been heavily pregnant when I applied for the job, and the dean said, giving my middle a meaningful look, “Do you think you’ll be able to manage a full teaching load with, you know…” “Oh,” I said, waving my hand nonchalantly, “that won’t be a problem at all.” Then classes started in the fall, and as I bounced like a ping-pong ball from teaching French sonnets to nursing babies, I did feel like a pioneer of sorts, living proof that we second-wave feminists could have and do it all. But during those desperately ravenous lunches, when I could barely keep from snatching away my own daughter’s food, and getting enough sleep was an impossible dream, I sensed that, in the brave new world into which I and my generation of women were venturing, not all landscapes were idyllic.
3 Responses
What a whirlwind of a life!
The first two I managed somehow; by the time youngest daughter came along, I had gotten ME/CFS, was no longer able to think physics, much less drive to work and DO anything.
But I couldn’t go out and work, had three under five, and decided, of course, to homeschool them with what was left of my brain.
Many years later, they all got into good colleges of their choice – and I’m still sick. But they got everything I could give them, instead of all my remaining energy going to stupidities like making lunches, homework, and the school bus.
I would have rather had work and dealing with being a working mom-physicist, but it was permanently gone.
Sounds like you had a tough time – but made real contributions to your students.
Funny, though – I don’t remember being hungry as you described, but you had so little time to yourself, and the kitchen wasn’t just downstairs. I don’t think I could have ever eaten baby food. My husband made it by hand for ours.
Three children AND Cfs—I can’t imagine how you survived. But I’m glad you did!
We had two kids when I got sick, and I was expecting a third.
We would have had to get the kids educated anyway – and I still think using my 2-3 hours of brain every day to teach three gifted children was far better than on getting them to the bus stop with a lunch.
It’s absolutely amazing how much school time is custodial, boring as all get out for the brighter kids in the class, and how much you get done, literally one-on-one for some subjects, in a much smaller amount of time at home. Occupies on whole adult, of course, but the kids get the education they need.