A matter of sigh(t)

I’m at the ophthalmologist’s office with my daughter Julia. We were lucky that the doctor was my friend; she fits us into her busy schedule. Julia failed her driver’s test. Her vision was so impaired that she couldn’t even read what was on the board.

“Julia, what is written on that stop sign?” She asked.

“What sign?” Julia replied.

And here I am, the negligent mother, sitting at the doctor’s office, not realizing where my daughter’s headache was coming from and letting her suffer in school. Here comes my guilt again, I concluded. I’m a bad parent.

The doctor was late and, of course, I decided we should just wait. One hour, two or three. Maybe a lifetime. It really didn’t matter because this is supposed to be my job. Finally Julia is called in.

I love my doctor friend, she is smart, succeeds in her career and manages to balance having three kids and a husband. It’s impressive. Sometimes I can barely get my pants on in the morning.

We walk in. Julia is on her phone. As usual. Somehow it seems she can only read the things on her screen. She Tik Toks as I talk to the doctor. I don’t even know what Tik Tok is but it’s all she does for hours at a time.

Somehow my friend manages to get her to look away from her screen so that she can examine her.

“OMG Julia, how are you managing to do your work at school?” She says, shocked.

My fault, I think.

Later in the day, I have a woman’s dinner in New Jersey. I ask my doctor friend if she is planning on coming as we belong to the same group of friends.

“Oh no, I’m not like you girls with so much time on your hands… I work.”

I’m a loser, I think. Suddenly I can feel air escaping my chest. What must she think of me, the loser who doesn’t work?

Her response took me back in time, when my kids were little and I decided to take the most difficult job of my existence. Like when a doctor botches a surgery, when anything goes wrong in a child’s life, the parent is the one to blame. Especially the mother. And that is why we are the most popular topic at the therapist’s office.

Things were not easy then. My kids did not have any family living around; everyone lived in Brazil. I moved to the U.S. with my 3-year-old son to get married to the love of my life and his two older teeagers, who at that time were not so thrilled that we were joining the family.

Second marriages can be even more challenging than the first, especially when there are children involved. We were far from being the Brady Bunch and … life became a labyrinth for me.

When I moved from Brazil I had a successful business and a family that helped me raise my son. But it was different here.

I was an immigrant and I wanted to fit in. Coming from a country where anything American was a sign of status, I did not question the new values I acquired, and the upscaled suburban life became my new goal. “Helicopter Parenting” was becoming all the rage back then and I quickly found myself conforming to the trend, with the same ease and joy as when my parents returned home from their trip to America, with a new pair of Nikes in their suitcase for me. Boy I was a cool kid! Yes, Nikes and Levis were a sign of status on my adolescence.

I tried to balance my new life. I got a job. I produced events.

And guess what? My life did not go the way I planned.

So I had to take on a much less respected position. For many years I was:

A Driver

A Chef (a bad one according to my kids)

A Therapist

A Friend

A Wife

A Manager

A nurse

An Accountant

A Handyman (or a woman if you are gender conscious)

A Laundry Lady

A Party Planner

A School Chaperone

A Secretary

A Decision Maker

The one to blame

And the most difficult one:

A Mom (to children with fur, feathers, and skin)

I don’t think anyone actually understands what I do. Not even my husband. How am I spending my time? Do I get paid? Are there benefits? What kind of job is that exactly?

Unlike many other professions, I can’t clock out. I am always on call, always at work. What this also means is that when anything goes wrong, it’s on me.

Here I am sitting at the doctor’s office again with my daughter, feeling guilty at her every ailment, looking at myself in the mirror and hearing the question echoing in my mind once again: What is that you do again?

But then I catch my breath and I remember, wait a minute, I’m 51 and I don’t care!!

Editor’s Note: To the friend above, this post is not about you 🙂

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