Personal Stories

by Teresa S.

From the moment my fiance and I found out we were going to have a child, an instant wave of terror came across us. He was in the process of changing jobs, and his VA (disabled veterans) monthly check was not going to be enough to even pay the rent. For the first 6 months of my pregnancy we both worked for a technical support company. By December and only three months left to go, My fiance got a new job. This job has doubled his pay from $8/hr to $14/hour. And this on top of his VA check would cover rent, and major, necessary bills.

by Kate Geiselman

I am awakened by a tiny squeak, and the distinctive, crackling sound of the disposable diaper on my squirming baby. I open one eye, just to check. It's only a stretch - she's sound asleep - tiny, rosebud lips moving rhythmically, sucking on a dream-nipple. Does she remember the darkness? The swish of the warm water? The sound of my heart? Being pushed abruptly into a cold, bright, loud place? The first words I said to her were "I'm sorry."

by Shanna Duncan

My husband's cousin, a stay at home mom, said to me once, "I couldn't be the kind of mom I want to be if I worked." I found that interesting because she had an exciting job that took her all over the world before she and her husband decided to have kids. At the time, I wasn't sure what that meant, but I was young, in an exciting career and working very hard to make my way.

by Cat Walters

Fourteen years ago, when my daughter was eleven years old and my son two, I lost my job when the company that I worked for closed its doors.

I searched for months, keeping a list of every place that I had sent a resume and/or had an interview. At some point I looked at the list and was astonished at the sheer amount of entries. I began to doubt myself, beat up on myself, and became very depressed. About a week later I had another interview. I was asked three questions that, although I had been asked before, struck a nerve in me on that day.

by Rebecca Peacock

I couldn't believe it when my alarm went off in the morning. After leaving my job a month ago I had been living the life of a stay-at-home mom with my 8 month old daughter and loving it. She and I had our routine down, and I loved our mornings snuggled up in bed, her soft little hand in mine as she nursed happily. However, like all good things this was destined to come to an end. The money had run out: to be clear, it had never been there to begin with. I was headed back to work.

by Julie

The clicking staccato of my keyboard is at times the only sound that infiltrates my brain for hours on end in my neatly manicured office. I think my heart has given over to following the rhythm of that beat versus any ancient version of its own. Just over the lid of my laptop, they watch me. Gorgeously stylized black-and-white images of the two creatures I live for - my son and daughter. I wonder what they're doing now. My daughter is probably outside at recess and my son is probably just going down for a nap. As I let my mind drift the 45 minutes drive toward my suburban home - my life, my loves, I force myself back to the task at hand. A spreadsheet, an unknown deadline, a mundane, but "critical" task.

by Nancy Hunter

Many women such as myself married, became mothers, and then basically were stay-at-home moms for many, many years. We provided all the services and support not only to our growing families, but many times to our husbands as well. Sometimes after the kids reached school age, we took on part-time positions at minimum wage; but, mostly, we were 'the cupcake moms', volunteering tirelessly, carpooling, sports activities, doctor appointments, chief cook and bottlewasher, so to speak.

by Samantha

I work part-time at the Legal Aid Clinic of our local law school as an administrative assistant (a glorified way of saying I'm a secretary). Since I became a mom 2 years ago, I have never been more discriminated against by the law school and the faculty and staff of the clinic. When I was about 5 months pregnant with my son, I complained to the law school that they were working me 40 hours a week, but not giving me full-time benefits. At our university, the part-time benefits aren't affordable so I was really hoping for the chance to have my position turned full time so I could get health, dental and leave time benefits.

by Brenda van Gelder

As the full-time working mom of three girls ages 1, 3, and 18 years old, I have lately found myself pondering my role as family wage earner vs. the primary caregiver. My husband has been the stay-at-home parent for the past 3 years, and it's been a bit of an adjustment for both of us. Our roles are not as clearly spelled out as they were when I stayed at home and he worked. For example, as the stay-at-home parent, should my husband consciously attempt to perform what has been the traditional "mother" role to our children? And should I, as the main wage earner, adapt myself to behave in accordance with the way fathers in traditional families typically behave with regard to the children? i.e., my husband concentrate on being the primary nurturer, attachment figure and I become the disciplinarian and the one who initiates physical play (after I have finished reading the newspaper when I get home from work, of course).

by Cat Sullivan

I have worked for pay for over 35 years and I have also been a mother for all that time. But I did not work fancy-dancy jobs where I got to wear nice clothes. I worked what I call McJobs, low-wage employment--and we women in these jobs endure bad treatment, dangerous and unhealthy conditions, sexual and on-the-job harassment. Most of the jobs I worked were union jobs, some non-traditional work, and not only for me but for other women, we were overlooked by unions as well (who, while golfing and boating with the manager, gave away our rights, pay, and even our jobs for their own gain at times). I am saying this as the descendent of a WOBBLY [Industrial Workers of the World], and I am only saying we need WORKERS rights, not just union rights.

by Janet Alfieri

As I recall, the concept of the Bad Mothers' Club began one weekday morning in the spring of 1986. I was rushing to get my two elementary-school-aged kids clothed, fed, and on the school bus so that I could shower, dress, and make it to the Annual Senior Citizens' Olympics in time to cover the egg-on-a-spoon race for the local paper.
As I tossed a slab of toast and a glass of apple juice in front of each child, my then-nine-year-old daughter, a stickler for routine, asked why she and her brother weren't having their usual cereal. "Because there's no milk," I said, handing her a banana and looking at my watch.

by Mary Ann Romans

In the process of unfolding the breast pump designed to look like a slightly bulky attaché, cords and dials popped from places that would make Maxwell Smart envious. “What is that thing?” asked yet another person bursting into my closed office, nearly tripping over Harvey, the huge pink bunny.

by Rachel Sarah

I became a single mom in 2000, when my partner walked out on our seven-month old baby and me. My daughter is going into first grade this fall, and I'm going on Year Six of Single Motherhood.

by Anne Michaud

My life seemed so wide-open when I was in my 20s. But by my 30s, I had begun making decisions that set me apart from other people. I got married, had children, formed ideas about raising those children. That's when the trouble started.

by Kate Fallon Hanan

When I was a on the edge of womanhood, I dreamed of falling in love, of being a writer, of traveling, teaching, and graduate school. Life spilled open before me and opportunities seemed endless; good fortune piled itself like packages on my doorstep. But as I hear my seven-year-old’s footsteps padding into my room and the easy creak of the bed as he slides between the cold sheets into the spot his father used to occupy, it seems my luck has run out.

by Cari Melby

I hold Nathan by bent elbows as he burrows into my lap like a rabbit into his den. I feel the roundness of his bottom shifting and shimmying into the space I’ve created for him with my crossed legs. Nathan leans his back into my waiting torso and melts into me. His head fits just under my chin.

by Tracy Thompson

Communication with my daughter is becoming problematical. “Mom!” Emma exclaims suddenly from the back seat as we turn into Watkins Park, where her summer nature camp is held. “Did you know that something is destroying the river?” (We are passing over a small creek.)

by Amelia Tyagi

For all you working parents out there: Which is more important, the quality of your kids’ daycare or the quality of your office Christmas party? Which takes a bigger toll on your productivity, a babysitter who doesn’t show up or the company’s broken cappuccino machine?

by Marion Winik

The last time I felt like a hero of any kind was the day last summer when my fifteen-year-old son found the decomposing body of our lost cat in a creek near our house. We’ll have to just leave him there, said Vince. He was therefore pretty impressed when I managed to get what used to be Pudge off the rock, out of the water and into double Hefty bags.

by Tracey Clark

My daughter was rounding two when I began to notice potty talk popping up in daily conversation. I, however, opted to dismiss the subject as long as I could. She was my second child and I had become more of a “follow her lead” kind of mom, having done it once before and all. Even as the moms around me began potty training their toddlers, I remained indifferent. I would gloat in my go-with-the-flow attitude: “What’s the rush? They’re only two! Oh, yeah, two. I guess it’s about that time. Crap.” Pun most certainly intended.

by Bridget Quinn

The fantasy comes many times a day, unbidden. I’m powerless against its pull and whatever real-world action I’m doing -- fist in the disposal, fingers seeking the sippy cup’s lost plug-thingy; or on hands and knees, body trembling with the effort of scrubbing water-based marker from hardwood -- I am instantly lost to the delectations of the mind, to that other world of perfect gratification and pleasure.