Proving a Point

Tonight, I hate myself. In order to prove a point, I ignored my daughter's cries.

But let me explain.

Earlier in the evening, Mike, the polo-shirt wearing brace-face at the Apple store, broke my heart. I made a deal with Alex, that if I was going to return to work in two weeks (I keep acting as though I have a choice), then I get to buy a new iPhone 4S so I can FaceTime at work while I'm pumping. I mean, how can anyone expect a new mother to go more than an hour or two without seeing her baby's face in real time?!? Anyhow, I was asking Mike all about different features and price points, and he informed me that FaceTime: A) cannot be used between two devices belonging to the same Apple user (in other words, I couldn't call from my iPhone at work and talk to Alex and Francie on my iPad at home), and B) FaceTime only works via wi-fi, not over the 3G network. Unfortunately, the VA is part of the clusterfuck that is our government and somehow manages to remain in the 1990's without wireless Internet access.

So as you can see, my heart is understandably broken, and I am milking my pout-fest for all that I can. I'm moping because I have to go back to work and be away from my little Bean, and because while I'm away I won't even be able to see her smiling face and all her new developments during the day. What if I miss her first giggle? Alex humors me. For awhile. And then he more or less tries to explain how it will all be okay because at least Francie's not in daycare, we're equal parents, blah blah blah. I snap.

I am a mother. Dads are NOT the same as mothers. Francie needs me. I shouldn't have to work. I should stay home with the baby. You get the point, probably. But just in case Alex didn't, I wanted to make sure he understood just how much both he and Francie need me. I told him I needed a break, and bustled around doing laundry and re-shuffling piles. I didn't make eye contact with the baby, for fear her chubby cheeks or adorable smile would break me down.

(Sidenote: as I write this I am hearing ANOTHER smoke alarm chirping periodically; I think someone is haunting our house).

Alex calls my bluff. "Oh Francie, you are fussy. You sound like you need to eat, " he coos at the baby loud enough so that I can hear him from the office.

Her whines and whimpers begin to escalate into a real cry. She's probably hungry indeed.

"Oooh, lookie here," he says, opening up the freezer and pulling out a bag of previously pumped breast milk. "I know it's not as fast as mama, but it will do the trick."

By this point, she's legitimately crying. I'm digging my nails into my skin, trying hard to ignore her cries and suppress my raging maternal instinct to snatch the Bean out of Alex's arms and soothe her with my sweet baby talk, lullabies, and, of course, boobs. I can't handle it, even another second, so I dash to the front door, trade my slippers for shoes, grab my wallet and shout "I'm going to get a hot chocolate" while running out the door.

During the drive to the store, my panic and self-loathing escalates. What kind of a mother freezes out her baby girl to make a point in the name of pride? Granted, Alex is indeed perfectly capable of caring for our daughter, and it's not as though she's at risk of going hungry, since I've been pumping every morning this month. But still, who am I punishing here? Anyone besides myself? And what exactly would be the end goal of this punishment - for Alex to feel badly? He already does. He would much prefer that he earned enough money or had the job security that allowed me to stay home fulltime. For him to tell me that I don't have to return to work? The thing is, I do. I need three more months of my fellowship in order to earn my SLP license. I certainly didn't spend the last 3+ years and tens of thousands of dollars on graduate school to not get the certification to practice speech-language pathology. For the stress and pressure of being a working mom to just evaporate into thin air? Yes, that probably is the goal. But I'm more likely to win the lottery - and I don't buy tickets - than I am to escape the conflicting desires of a woman is at once a professional and a mother. If only.