Boy, she’s pretty much inescapable these days, that Sheryl Sandberg. Lately I feel like she done leaned right on into my livingroom. The other day at the gym I was reading Time’s cover article on Sandberg while watching a CNN piece on Sandberg that referenced a Vanity Fair article on Sandberg (in an issue which perhaps ironically has Taylor Swift on the cover…contrasts). The woman’s gone meta.
I have no real quarrel with Sandberg. The Mommy Wars aren’t really my thing, and anyway, she’s obviously talented, smart, and ambitious and her career savvy has paid off handsomely, and why shouldn’t she try to inspire greatness in others? Good for her. I am also not in a position to throw stones, given my own privileged access to education, for which I will always be humbled and grateful.
Where is this going, then? Well, as I was reading (and watching and listening) about Sandberg I was struck by a single sentence in the Time article, in which Sandberg declined to discuss anything about domestic help, on the grounds that no one would ask a man that question.
Hmm.
It has been my experience, having worked part-time, full-time, and stay-home-mom time since becoming a mother, that the question of help, domestic or otherwise, is fundamental to the “making it all work” equation. The calculus of help — the need for it, the nature of it, the cost of it — dominates most discussions we have during the workweek.
I work in the non-profit sector, where it is widely understood that the privilege of serving the greater good accounts for a portion of one’s “income.” I do not complain about this; it’s the path I chose and I’m good at it. Before I had children I would often get to the office before 8 and work past 7. But then I had children, and I learned quickly that arranging for the care of said children is an expensive proposition. For every career move I have made in the past five years, there has been a spreadsheet, a careful weighing of take-home pay against the childcare implications. Schedules are jimmied about, grandparents enlisted to pick up the slack, a thousand and one apologies offered to one’s employer as one bows out of the room and then dashes out the door because it’s parent-teacher conference week and school closes at noon today. And that’s before you’ve tried to put dinner on the table.
To dodge the question of help, as Sandberg and (many high-profile businesswomen, I’ve noticed), have a habit of doing, is, in my humble opinion, to undermine their whole “have it all” position. I don’t fault them for their success or their choices, but I fault them for drawing a felt curtain over the machinery that hums behind them. “You can do this too!” they exhort me. Yeah, probably, if I really wanted to, I could. I’m a pretty smart lady. BUT I WOULD NEED A LOT OF HELP.
As it is, I need a lot of help! I worship the people who help me. Go ahead, Time: ask me about it. I am the first one in the room to raise my hand and say, hell yes, every four weeks someone comes in and gives my apartment a deep cleaning and it is my favorite day of the month. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg! And so, inspired by Lean In, I am dedicating this post to everyone I lean on.
I could not do this without my husband. I wouldn’t want to do this without my husband. He’s awesome. A true partner, who loves and respects his wife and her choices. He surrounds himself with friends who display similar character, and because of him my son is growing up with a host of male role models who represent integrity and work ethic and sportsmanship and kindness, and my daughter is learning that men and women are equal shareholders in the success of a family.
I could not do this without my parents. My parents care for my children when I can’t, they surprise us with meals and bottles of wine and packs of stickers to keep the kids occupied for a few precious minutes, they listen (and listen and listen) when I am at a parenting loss. They — along with my father-in-law — guarantee that my children are rich in love and grounded in a sense of family and legacy.
I could not do this without my son’s teachers. Every day you start with a sticker, and it’s your job to keep it. You keep it by showing kindness and respect, by listening well and having a good attitude, and by not waking up the others during naptime. Assume the best of children, and most days they will deliver. It is a lesson worth remembering.
I could not do this without my daughter’s daycare. We do not speak the same language, her caregivers and I, but she runs to the door now with barely a backwards glance and a Ciao, Mommy!, and she is clean and chubby and I know we all love her to pieces, and that’s enough for now.
I’m pretty sure I could not do this with any other boss than the one I have. And I’ve tried! He does not question my priorities, and I reciprocate by doing my best not to let him down.
I could not do this without my sister. Best friend, mirror, sounding board, spur-of-the-moment walk-and-a-glass-of-wine partner, fellow mom.
I would be lost without my girlfriends and fellow moms. How else does one learn that stickers are better potty-training rewards than M&Ms, or that Google Images is the only way to find enough “O” pictures for the Letter of the Week envelope? Who else will confirm that actually, even though they tell you not to, most people have to rub their kids’ backs like 45 times in a night in order to get them to sleep? Who but your fellow woman, with all her good intentions and all her triumphs and all her flaws, can give you the courage to let go of everything you’ve been conditioned to believe about what women should be?
I am eternally grateful for the following:
My once-a-month cleaning team;
The check-out people at the Safeway near my house, who help me carry groceries (and kids) from the store to my apartment at least once a week;
The weekend childcare at my gym;
Our building manager;
My favorite babysitter;
The really nice waitresses at the restaurant we go to on Sundays, who know us and put in our order the minute we walk in the door so the kids don’t have to wait too long for their food (nor do we, for our beer);
The lifeguard at the pool (even though she judged me that one time last summer);
The founder of Diapers.com, and the customer support team (You think I’m kidding. I’m not.);
My neighbors, who never complain when we sleep train, or paci-train, or attitude-train, or ride scooters up and down the hallway on rainy days and generally raise a hullabaloo.
I feel like those people at the Oscars, only I’m in more practical clothes because after work I have to hit the playground. I’m sure I’m forgetting someone. My agent? My doctors? The list goes on and on, and on and on.
I could not do this alone. I wouldn’t want to. Now lean in. Let’s have a hug.
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