From Here to Autonomy

Concerns of a Mom returning to work

This is the last weekend of my maternity leave, which I've anticipated for a long time. I've been planning the timing of things in my head and practicing on the breast pump--which for all its necessary function also is a bit dehumanizing. Even as I rely on them, I'm a bit repulsed by the pump, the plastic milk storage bags, these poor facsimiles of maternal role replacement. I know, I know, many women have done this before me; broken the seal of the little bubble of constancy created around them and their child. It has to be done sometime, but I still find myself recoiling from the inevitable pop.

I remember asking a woman in my office who had recently returned from maternity leave how she felt to be back. She was glad to be working again but confessed that she cried dropping her son off at daycare. A friend of mine who returned to work three months ago said she cried every day for two weeks very morning, after dropping off her daughter with a shared nanny. I'm lucky: My husband will be staying at home with my daughter--no emotional drop-offs; no wondering if she's clean or scared. I don't imagine myself crying, but rather digging in to work like I've done for the past 17 years. Work has a way of helping me temporarily forget things. But I worry: what if I don't temporarily forget? What if I find it too easy to forget?

I must confess, I miss being focused on things for longer than three minutes, with no distractions.

My child has not been away from me for 3.5 months. There was one day when Daddy took her out thinking he would come home sooner, but, amazed that she took a bottle in her sleep, he stayed out a whopping six hours. Aside from that anomalous day we've been apart no longer than three hours. Never has a relatively short eight hour work day seemed like such a hurdle.

We've tried to get her to take a bottle (asleep or awake) for two months, and we have had no luck aside from the aforementioned "dream feed". Sometimes she screams during our attempts; most times she plays with the nipple of the bottle, thinking we're offering her a new toy, happy to chew on it for a few seconds but ultimately rejecting it. We've offered the bottle with Mommy out of sight, with Mommy in the room, with Mommy subbing it in for the breast during a nursing, with experienced Grandmas and Aunts helming the effort, with Daddy begging her to consider, with bottles that look like boobs, with bottles that look like pacifiers, and with bottles that look like bottles, but nada.

We're now resorting to what friends tell us is the final, most effective method: Mommy goes back to work and makes the baby take a bottle or starve. This option is more than unsettling.

The babe also doesn't like to sleep in her crib. The past three months has elapsed over a long series of hand-offs between me and my husband; and if you are the one she falls asleep on, you must transition her to the nearest bed-like surface. Sometimes this can be a crib, or co-sleeper, or reclined baby swing or couch. The transition is done with the grace and precision of an experienced tai chi practitioner, as the babe cannot feel any slackening, dropping, or fidgeting or she will wake up.

This on-demand service will be impossible to continue when I go back to work, including the days when I'm working from home. In other words, unless we get this kid trained to fall asleep on her own, in her own bed, my husband will be the sole set of arms for eight-hour stretches of time. I've been praying for him and reminding him that, in retrospect, these times pass by all too quickly.

There were short stretches during my leave when I took a work call, sat in on an important meeting, responded to email, jotted down some thoughts I had about something business-related. All of these moments were all-encompassing. I know myself, and while I often multitask, I cannot integrate mothering with working. Both must be done exclusively during the times I've designated for them.

This, in itself, is a mixed blessing because it forces me to keep these realms separate, but it also forces them to compete. The work side can no longer sneak in minutes, that turn into hours, pursuing unscheduled ideas and entering spontaneous discussions. All of my spontaneity will be paradoxically planned; hemmed into my work day. The Mom side has to acknowledge the future I'm building at its short-term expense. I'll miss some milestones of my daughter's development and catch her at the crankier end of the day.

And I'll abandon someone I once left before, years ago, with whom I'd become reacquainted over the past three months. She knows how to sit in a room without looking at the clock. She forgets appointments. She sometimes forgets to bring her cell phone with her when she's out. She calls her friends in the middle of the day and apologizes if she catches them working. She finds joy in crazy things like changing diapers. She's not hankering to go places. She gets weepy from looking at babies, particularly ones she has to leave.   

My New Venture: Olive Des Jardins Markman

 

This post has been a work in progress since September 16, two days after Olive was born. Every day I added a paragraph to the account of her expedient birth (four hours all-told of labor; I'm told I'm an anomaly), of the range of emotions that followed, of my struggle to back away from the computer (which c'mon people, why the hell not browse the Internet while nursing?). And every day, a new distraction that has kept me from finishing this post. I have several versions, each with a new start. Today, I finally said, to hell with it. Just start writing, and once you have a semblance of a schedule and more than five minutes to devote substantive thought toward a more organized post THEN I can get all prosy.

H-band just asked me how I'm feeling. I'm feeling good. Relieved and grateful to the point of tears that when I look at Liv I see the universe has delivered well past my hope for a healthy baby. And I'm feeling like I'm living in molasses. Every accomplishment--whether it's eating lunch or just getting dressed--requires a plan, and is often thwarted. I endeavor to return to my cup of yogurt, or finish flossing, and often get sidetracked. I often feel half-done, and distracted by this little girl when she struggles to focus on me. I stare at her and realize that the day is already over.

Staring at Liv is perhaps the most inefficient thing I've ever done. There's no multitasking involved, and it could be a while before she realizes that the face attached to the boobs belongs to Mom. But I've set a new goal that I intend to reach: When she finally can focus her little eyes on me I want to be looking back.

Breastfeeding in the office: My view

I recall a conversation I had with a woman who was my neighbor at the time, telling me how she handled feeding her newborn as a working mom: It really wasn't an issue, she said, she simply brought her baby to work with her and nursed her in the office. I was far enough away from having to plan my own parenting options that I simply took mental note of it and finished drinking my glass of wine.

Two years later I'm sitting in a lactation class, seemingly the only one with questions. "But if I'm coming into and out of the office, or even traveling, how do I get on a SCHEDULE?" I ask the woman at the top of the circle. "You just breast feed like you normally would, and then you pump some additional for when you are in the office," she said.

This answer didn't satisfy me. What if I didn't have more milk to pump? She seemed to assume I was going to have a steady presence in the office, but seeing as my job involves a lot of travel, that wasn't going to be the case. How would I manage pumping in, say, airport bathrooms, or after a day of back to back meetings? And what about others' around me? Would everyone understand my need to nurse? I spent my first few months of pregnancy in silence, taking perhaps more meetings and going on more business trips, as if to shore up enough pre-mommyhood chips for when I'd need to cash them in later.

I didn't want to make this group class all about me, so I let the questions linger in my head. Later, asking other women how they managed to breastfeed while working I was told much the same thing by all of them, "You just figure it out." I envisioned  "figuring it out" meaning something akin to developing a milk inventory spreadsheet, wearing a breast pump under my clothes and people associating me with this constant, electric sucking sound.

I was glad to see women like Margaret Heffernan--whose book about the dynamics of women in the workplace The Naked Truth I practically ate it was so relevant and consuming--address this issue of being a lactating executive. On the face of it, feeding one's child is such an unquestioned necessity; why is the management of this task so fraught with anxiety? Why should the fact that I am working while handling this activity make others--and hence myself--so uncomfortable?

"I don't know why you can't sometimes take the baby with you to work and nurse her when you need to," H-band said. I looked at him like he'd just suggested we join the circus.

"No no no no no. Nope. Not doing that. No. I mean, no. Not appropriate." And yet, didn't my former neighbor say that she did that at her job with the city? What makes me so different? Shouldn't I feel more empowered to develop a strategy that works for me as my company's co-founder?

Heffernan's post describes how another executive mom, Sabrina Parsons, struggles but manages the day to day feeding of her baby while heading up a Silicon Valley software company. Fact is, as one of Heffernan's readers points out, the law requires that women be allowed time and a place to express milk while at work, whether she's the CEO of the company or entry level. I know from personal stories how companies such as Walmart even provide spaces for employees to handle the care--and feeding--of their newborns.

But, notes Heffernan, "...the true barrier to women breastfeeding at work isn't legal; it is cultural. I could get away with it because I was the CEO. There are many, many companies that find this very difficult to take, not least because it reminds them that their employees do have other priorities in their lives beyond work!"

I recall several years ago a sponsor at BlogHer who called me after the conference to complain about how inappropriate it was that women were allowed to breastfeed in the vicinity of their sponsored area. I reminded this person that we not only allowed breastfeeding, we provided a lounge for it. Then why, the female sponsor asked, didn't we kindly ask women who opted to breastfeed in more public places to go to the lounge? Because, I told her, we didn't think of nursing anywhere at the conference as inappropriate. The lactation lounge was for women who wanted quiet and privacy. For those who didn't require either, the rest of our space was also fair game.

I have to laugh that this sponsor, who was targeting moms, felt that breastfeeding was so off-brand, even an embarassment. This incident reminds me that while I do not feel in the least bit uncomfortable with the notion of women breastfeeding in my workspace, the possibility of others' discomfort and disenchantment with women who integrate their mothering and their jobs affects me. Indeed, there remains a tension, for me, anyway, around bringing my mom duties to the office. Though we offer lounges for breastfeeding moms at our conferences, we don't have too many precedents in  our office itself. While there are so many mothers at our company, their children are past breastfeeding age, or they work out of their homes, for the most part. I do feel that my choice to have a child and to breastfeed are just that, choices, not sweeping policy decisions that require everyone to have to witness.

I will not push back meetings to go pump. Nor will I feed my kid behind Levolor blinds. I know some people do, and I think it's great they are able to. I will prefer to surreptitiously surrender to someplace that's private and that has an electrical outlet,  pack away the proceeds in a heavily sealed bag in the company refrigerator, and jump on the next con call.

I appreciate that the law and my colleagues will allow me to acknowledge that I am a Mom because the realities of life raising children while working make both unignorable. Though, for now, I need a line drawn, even a self-imposed one, to make both work.

Pregnancy Journal, Week 36: Working with my feet up

A friend of mine called me from New York. We talked for a while about his new job--I may be one of the few people who enjoys discussing with my friends the intricacies of their day to day work.

He asked me, so how are you?

I had to preface my response with a disclaimer,

"Nothing's wrong," I said. "But things are different." My friend probed to determine if I was unhappy.

"Nope," I said. "I'm just getting used to this change." I felt inarticulate, like when I had nightmares as a kid and my mom came into my room and asked me what I was afraid of, and I didn't know. One time I told her, "I'm feeling something skinny; a skinny string." I still get the sensation, but I don't know what it means.

By "change" I think I mean all that has shifted since becoming pregnant. For years I've been told about how the focus of energy shifts when you become a parent. I've held off on my decision to have children knowing this shift occurs. 

But even knowing that I am supposed to slow the centrifugal force that has tied me to a grinding schedule for so long, I find that I still give myself a spin or two to stay in motion, even during times of physical exhaustion. I wonder if I do this out of habit; being in motion is all that I know. Or because the slowdown scares me; all this momentum, what would it take to start up again? What if I fall in love with slow? What if slow feels like a skinny string?

A trusted friend--a powerhouse, even to other powerhouses--tells me that her desire to work, to achieve, didn't change when she had her son, but her reason for working did.

"I did everything because of him," she said.

Some might bristle at that thought, especially since working women are encouraged to have their careers "for themselves". But some of us have been working "for ourselves" for a very, very long time, at the risk of having no perspective and losing the meaning behind what we do. For me, the thought of working for someone else is liberating; it opens possibilities. It bends the rules I set in my mind of the way work must be.

Still, the rules run deep. My business partner said to me last week that if I may not want to bother commuting these last few weeks before the baby is born. Makes sense: an hour-long commute (on a good day) is hardly safe or desirable should I go into labor a few weeks early. After five years of working together (two of those virtually) she knows the work will get done anywhere. But I struggle to take her up on her suggestion. I've always valued physical, tangible presence. Presence is being in motion.

Another co-worker suggested that I use the couch she has in her cube--something she's integrated into her space for extreme back issues. I thanked her and wondered, when would I think to put my feet up? My first job out of college, when my boss traveled I'd sneak cat naps in her office. Why was it so much easier to acknowledge exhaustion when I was 21?

At the BlogHer conference I promised my colleagues and husband that I would put my feet up regularly. It took my husband physically guiding me back to my hotel room 14 hours after I started the day to do what I'd promised. As I sat there, propped by pillows, feet up against the wall, tired and restless, I lamented that it was still so early--I was leaving first thing in the morning and still hadn't seen or done everything I'd wanted to do.

I am hardly a sadomasochist or born with more energy than others. I just don't know otherwise. I suppose I will learn. And I will learn how to channel that energy where it needs to go. And rather than look upon these offers of support suspiciously, I will learn to put my feet up and note that there are moments that we work and moments that we work FOR.

And that skinny string that keeps us tethered to a life in which we've done very well won't break.

BlogHer '10: My first conference as a working mother

I was chatting with my BlogHer co-panelists last week about our panel: Where's the Line or the Lie: Storytelling, Memoir and Poetic License. I find that I often moderate these more personal-blogging-type sessions at BlogHer, because I started as an identity blogger. I have a natural affinity with those who put it all out there, even if that has not been my reality for five years, since BlogHer began.

I realized, hot damn, I have not posted to this blog in over a month. That's not very bloggy of me. And I and my colleagues will be running a conference built by and for bloggers. I find myself asking, Jory, WTF? Are you still an identity blogger? Do you still see life through the lens of what would make a compelling blog post? The truthful answer is, sometimes.

Sure I've been busy--everybody's busy. Though I must confess the recent disadvantage of pregnancy. I don't cram things in my day anymore, like a blog post or an extra call. I do what's directly in front of my face, get the immediate priorities done, and then call it a day. This has become a physical necessity, one I knew would manifest by my third trimester but chose to not think about...until I noticed things, like how breathless I get when I'm speaking, and how forgetful, and that it's been a month since my last post.

There's a lot of withheld information in my unwritten posts about women, work, and family making; I've thought about this in light of my BlogHer session. Before I was pregnant, I read voraciously about women raising kids and building careers. The only impediment to achieving in both realms, I thought, were others' preconceived notions about women and work--the assumption that once we procreate we're no longer interested in pursuing our careers.

Clearly that's not the case--I know too many women who have achieved even more post-children than pre. Some of the most prolific, and commercially successful, bloggers are full-time moms. While I can't explain why without having been there myself, I do believe it probably has something to do with an efficiency that develops among women who now have two jobs to do: There's no time for questioning your ability; both jobs simply have to get done. Kids need to have their lunches made, just as presentations need to be completed. There's less time to stew and wonder, could I have done that better? Was I less than perfect in that meeting? It's a strange luxury--not having the time to overthink, just to do.

I recall the first BlogHer, when I woke up at 5a.m., arrived at the TechMart at 6am to help post signage and prepare the registration line, and was sick with nerves. Though I was a blogger and can relate to the many pre-BlogHer posts I read by women with social anxieties, my concerns were hardly around who congregated with whom, or what bloggers might blow me off, but rather whether the food was coming out on time, if sponsors got what we promised them, if the sessions were useful. Connecting later with other women over drinks, or even in the hallway on their way to a session, was pure pleasure in comparison.

I realize now that my stress during BlogHer is the kind that lies in the eye of the storm, where anxiety is minimalized to the bare essentials. After BlogHer '05 I cared less about my blog traffic--even stopped monitoring it altogether--or whether I was included in top blogger lists. I was enveloped in a new purpose of creating a space for this community. The act of creation and nurturing something or someone other than yourself immunizes you from seeing the world as a pecking order, or as a series of parties you are not invited to, or as an old-boys network. These constructs melt away; paradoxically, there is less time AND fewer constraints. It's a place of re-invention.

Perhaps, since BlogHer is my "baby" this is not dissimilar to the situation of the working mother.

This year for me will be different. I have a new consideration that is purely physical. I won't likely be able to weather a day of not eating. I won't laugh off suggestions of taking a load off. I'm not concerned about making it to all of the parties, but rather whether I will have the energy to make it to A party. I will literally have to put my feet up at times over the next few days. Perhaps, from this standpoint, I will get to see the event from others' eyes.

But from my own it will be different because I have another job, if you will, that makes some of the rushing, the stressing, the performing a bit absurd. And it will be different because I will be in wonderment at those who have children already, or another baby--literal or figurative--in the making who attack this event like they do every thing else, with no second thoughts.
 

Mother's guilt begins: Contemplating third trimester travel

A few weeks ago I went to my monthly appointment with my midwife, a gal I've moved heaven and earth (translation: moved to a more expensive insurance plan) to keep. Every few weeks, as I get more and more uncovered lab invoices and anticipate the biggie to come--the hospital bill--I remind myself that I chose this situation. I chose this insurance plan because it includes in its network the hospital where my midwife works, and I really, really like my midwife. She's been in the midwifery business for years, she came very well recommended, and when we met I said to myself--SHE'S the one.

So then, why can I not take her advice?

My monthly checkup was about 90 percent complete--baby's heartbeat is fine, my growth is normal, my pee is normal--when H-band decides to chime in with The Question. The question I'd answered for myself a long time ago, but obviously not to his satisfaction:

"You know, Jory's got a blogging conference in New York in early August she's planning on going to. She's been traveling a lot lately, and this would be her last trip, but I just wonder if it's a good idea."

Midwife asks: "How many weeks will you be?"

"Thirty four," H-band says.

"Thirty three," I correct him, "entering my thirty fourth."

Our midwife doesn't even take a second to think it over, "Oh well, you're not going."

"I'm not?"

"Oh no, not at thirty four weeks."

I throw out my defensive measure--the one I'd been resting on."My airline cut-off is thirty six weeks!"

"Airlines don't know what's best for you," she says launching into a very well-meaning discussion about how it makes perfect sense that I would still continue to think like a business person, since it's how I've derived my identity for so long, and how difficult it can be to start thinking like a mom. But starting now, it was time to think differently, make different decisions.

I think to myself, of course I will, but after the conference.

Mentally I cross off a business trip to Chicago and my high school reunion, which would take place the two weeks before my conference. These are the sacrifices I must make as a mom to be. But no. Not my conference.

****************************************************

Women's work?

Part of my experimentation with my new neighborhood involved trying a new place for a mani-pedi. This didn't come with a small amount of apprehension; a good mani-pedi place is hard to find.

I got comfortable in my chair, settling into the warm pool of water at my feet. An Asian man--not older than 35--lifted my right hand.

"What shape?"

"Short and square," I replied.

"This color on your hands and feet?" he asked, holding up the bottle of deep red that I had picked out when I walked in.

"Please."

I watched this man study my cuticles and start trimming away at my nails. This was most certainly a first for me--having a man give me a mani-pedi. I've seen more men come to salons to receive services, but never had I seen a man giving them before.

I noticed my judgements: Can this guy do a good job? Will he bungle the polish? I watched him work, when normally I would sit back and zone out.

But why would a man who's trained to give manicures do a bad job? This incident made me think about work, and more specifically, women's work versus men's work. What kind belongs to whom anymore?

____________________________________________


I hand H-band a piece of notebook paper with a list of tasks.

"For the week," I say to him, dubious that he would internalize my requests.

"Yep, thanks."

"What are you doing today?"

"Got some work out back, some shopping, and a call at lunchtime," he says.

I'm uneasy with his answer, "But what about the list? When will you get to the list?"

I wonder if, since leaving his company, he'll be efficient with his time, or productive. When we both worked full-time we divided tasks accordingly: He did household tasks like the dishes and most of the cooking. I paid the bills and planned things like travel and dinner parties. I gravitated toward things in the future; he handled things as they came up.  Now he was taking on everything at home: the immediate, the planned, and, when the baby comes, the primary caregiving.

I remind myself that he's good at this. I come home, and he's made dinner. I know that with our daughter he will do what comes naturally and keep her safe, fed, and loved. But I can't help myself: I plan.

"When will you call the insurance people?" I ask. "Will you hang the pictures today?" "Who are you meeting with today?" I want to make sure he really wants to do this. And I have to ensure he's structured, that he's in movement, that he still thinks of his future.

I need to watch him work because I question his instincts in this realm, even when they are more highly honed than my own.

 

 

Where did all my hobbies go?

My business partner, Lisa, passed along a questionnaire from a blogger who will be writing about the working habits of female entrepreneurs. Both Lisa and my other partner, Elisa, had responded; I tried not to read their answers as I approached the questions, but I couldn't help but notice that our answers were eerily similar--with the exception that, as a parent, Lisa spends about 1/3 of her time parenting. Elisa and I try to eak in workouts, books/TV and the occasional cooked meal when we're not working or sleeping.

What amazed me about all of our responses:

--Our hours worked: We tend to put in similar amounts of hours, getting up early to address email, getting in a full work day, and jumping back on our computers to address email/reading after our dinners and activities with friends/spouses/children.

--Our time on email: It's an ever-present thing, even when we're traveling or "offline".

--Our dwindling hobbies: Elisa is a theater buff, and Lisa used to ski a ton. I used to go to yoga class religiously and write creatively. These pursuits were not in our answers, or they were mentioned as rare activities squeezed in while on vacation, or with the words "try to" preceding them, as in, "I TRY to catch a show once a month."

As I was typing my responses to these questions about what I did outside of work--working on a Saturday morning, as I tend to knock out reading I didn't get to during the week--I looked over at my husband, Jesse, embarrassed.

"Jeezus hun! I don't have hobbies anymore."

"You think?" he said, with no small amount of sarcasm.

I love to read profiles of other entrepreneurs, with the voraciousness many have while reading People, In-Style, or some other publication detailing the lives of the rich and famous. I love to hear how they spend their time, down to their commute routines. There's a column in Inc Magazine that showcases a different entrepreneur every month, detailing his/her typical work day. And I marvel at those who do such things as cycle religiously for two hours before sunrise, or who are competitive flamenco dancers on the side. How do they do it and run a business? I wonder.  

I think back to early in my career in New York City, when I worked at several media conglomerates and made it a goal of mine to hit all of the new plays, films, and hot spots I could afford that were listed in Time Out NY magazine. Going through old boxes this past month as I prepared for a move, I found an old collection of Playbills and matchbooks--proof that, once, I did stuff that was not work-related. I found old manuscripts and magazine clips and was amazed at the consecutive hours of creative time it must have taken to write it all. Though I wanted to pare down all the random detritus I'd collected over the years, I couldn't get myself to throw this stuff away.

Jesse and I stole away for a bagel this morning, and I bragged to him that every Saturday, back when I lived in New York more than 10 years ago, I used to walk to a local bagel shop, order one with one of three of my favorite shmear flavors, then stop over at the coffee shop across the street to read The New Yorker or a book I was reading with my book club. I didn't have a mobile phone or a laptop; it was a purely analog pursuit. And I'd spend hours there, enough to get my thoughts swirling. I'd go home and write up a storm.

I used to regularly host friends for dinner, planning the menu days before and often prepping food most of a Saturday afternoon. Or I'd endeavor to bake something I'd never made before.

I used to take classes on such things as fiction writing, winetasting, boxing, or improvisational acting, and attend book readings after work.

I feel slightly wistful, but hardly regretful, of the changes; I'm more mindful of them. On the other side of the coin, 10 years ago I yearned for more adventure out of my work, and to do more than read manuscripts and edit articles eight hours a day. I wished I could travel more. I wished that I could work for myself and maybe even support a family with my work. I wished that the time I did have wasn't spent wishing for more.

I may have no hobbies, but in that last respect the grass is most certainly greener today.

The Back-Up Parent

My sister teaches college history in NYC. From the looks of it she has one of those dream jobs that allows for full-time employment and flexibility. Twice a week she comes into the city early to teach class and meet with students, and the other days she works from home, where she works full-time. The days she is in the city her husband drops the kids off at day care and the school bus stop, but she comes home early to pick them up, make dinner, and most times bathe them and put them to bed.

Her husband's job is demanding. He's an attorney and often has to spend long days at the office and work on weekends. When he gets home the kids are often in bed. He gets up early to help get them ready in the morning. I wonder how he manages on so little sleep.

"That's just the way it is right now," my sister says. My job has more flexibility so it makes sense that I'm the default for picking up the kids from school, taking them to appointments and soccer practice, staying home with them when they are sick."

Many couples I know have a similar arrangement: the spouse with more flexibility is the default child chauffeur, preschool pageant volunteer, dinner maker. The job that yields more income is protected by both parties.

"I just couldn't imagine Chris having to leave the office in the middle of the day with all he's got going on," she said, then joked, "but me--I'm always backing toward the exit while people are still talking to me. I'm always in a state of having to be somewhere else."

She doesn't tell me this to complain. It's just more of an observation she's had lately. Her new book is out, and though she's tickled by the PR and attention it's getting, she's had to rethink her intricate weekly regime. A panel discussion at Princeton, a book reading at night in the city, an interview during the dinner making hour. These are things that require rearranging, booking sitters, and asking favors of neighbors. Her husband has been more than willing to take days at home and rearrange his schedule to support her. But she still seems uneasy.

"It's great that he helps out when he can," she said. "But he's not the back-up. I am. I'm still the back-up."

I want her to take in the rewards of her hard work. To spend a day contemplating her next project uninterrupted. To prepare for an interview without worrying about what needs to thaw in time for dinner. I want her to be able to say, "It's all covered," and then embark on a U.S. book tour. Most of all, I don't want her to always be in a state of leaving when she's at work.

And for me, I don't want to always be in a state of leaving when I'm at home. I feel like I'm learning a new skillset from her--someone who once could never put her work down. It involves thinking linearly--picking up the kids, making dinner, running the bath. It involves fewer phone calls, perhaps not even checking messages in the evenings. It involves waking up early not to catch up on email but to make lunches and help little people pick out their outfits. It involves deriving less identity from one's career and more from somewhere else. My sister's been at it for years, and it hasn't come naturally, but she's become a pro.

A Travel Resolution: Spending more quality time on the road

I've been thinking a lot about my business travel rituals while I've spent the last week at home on vacation. I hadn't realized I had some, but over the past few years it's become inevitable.

Before we had secured venture funding, travel was done on the founders' dime. As we started to build revenue we had a bit more budget to work with, but mostly it meant finding the cheapest air and hotel rates, hoping to get some freebies from miles, and researching how to get to and from airports using subsidized transportation.

With our office manager's help, I still try to find decent rates where I go, but I realized how much time and precious energy was lost trying to skimp on basic travel expenses. Now I take cabs or order car services and avoid redeyes. It just makes more sense to have more time to work, not commute, and to be effective at meetings, not just show up for them.

I've also made more emotional expenditures. I go to New York often and stay with my sister, which in addition to saving the company from astronomical room rates also grounds me. If I'm not working late I'll read to the kids before bed, or eat with my sister and watch a TV show. When I'm in Chicago I stay with my mother and like to go to dinner. I may have to get back on email afterward, but at least we can catch up over a meal. 

When I'm not with family and on the road I try (try, being the operative word here) to get in some TV or reading at night. I try to work out and read the newspaper in the morning.

I do what I can, but I think there's more to be done. Perhaps I have to think about spending less time with my "other family."

It's a joke, even if twisted, my husband's reference to my "other family". He uses this term to make light of my incessant business trips. When I leave on one he'll often say, "Off to see your other family?" When I call him from the road and tell him I have to make our call short to get some shuteye, he'll say, "Yep, gotta spend time with your other family." He says it lightheartedly, but I know that there's a tinge of regret in there. I know he misses me.

Sometimes I have fun with this "other family". I'll call him, after coming home late from a business dinner on the road and tell him I was out with my other family and calling to check in. Rarely do our conversations last very long, and I attribute this to having more to do before bed or sheer exhaustion. He knows it's not personal--we have better conversations in person than over the phone. But when you spend a lot of time away that's a lot of small talk.

I'm curious to hear about others' travel rituals. How do you stay connected when you are with your other family?