I've been a work-at-home mom since the day my self-proclaimed maternity leave ended, around the time Gabriel was 3 months old or so. I really began working for myself in earnest in June of that year, when he was about 6 months old. It's been a year and a half of solid work-at-home-mamaness.
I have done a lot of things wrong and a lot of things bootlegged, but I finally feel like I am actually getting a handle on this home-all-day-with-him situation. And what it really boils down to, for me, as a single mom who must work, who has a toddler, who has no regular childcare, is awareness. Well, awareness and priorities.
The single most effective thing I have found for working at home with my toddler (thus far) is to divide my tasks into "awake tasks" and "asleep tasks." And when I talk about "work" or "tasks," I am talking about everything that must be done. Editing jobs. Dishes. Writing. Packing and shipping for the family business. Laundry-folding. Showering. Even TV-watching. Anything that is done at home and is not "reading a book for pleasure" (as if that ever happens) or "doing whatever Gabriel wants to do" is considered work.
I have learned, the hard way, what kinds of work I can do when he's awake and what I can only do when he's asleep. These days, I get a two-hour nap and a post-bedtime block of time and that's about it, so I've really got to make the most of the time that he's asleep -- it's too limited to waste on things I can do at other times.
Examples of sleep work include most of the writing and editing jobs that I have, especially those that pay by the hour rather than the project. Jobs that don't pay by the hour are easier to fit into the 5- and 10-minute chunks of time I sometimes get throughout the day, but it's nearly impossible to keep track of my time while doing that, which is why I'm such a fan of project-based fees rather than hourly fees. Other sleep work? Folding and putting away the laundry. I have a helper who likes to remind me that laundry needs to be shaken and tossed on the floor, especially if it is stacked too neatly.
The difficult thing for me has been resigning myself to not doing the awake work that need to be done, if he's already gone to bed. That 9pm-1am (or whenever I get too tired to do quality work) stretch is my best shot at real productivity in any given day, and I just can't justify sacrificing it to unloading the dishwasher and wiping down the bathroom mirror, no matter how much I want that other stuff to get done.
Some days -- lots of days -- there's just too much to get done. There's almost never time left over to do the things that are really gratifying but not "necessary" -- like knitting, and blogging, and having my friends over as frequently as I'd like. But having this basic guideline has helped me feel like I am at least making good choices about the things I manage to do when given the opportunity.
What's one of your best productivity tips?
Showing posts with label single motherhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label single motherhood. Show all posts
8.21.2013
sick babies
There's a slew of sick babies on my facebook news feed. This is one of the reasons I tend to avoid facebook. I prefer to remain ignorant of sick babies.
These generally are sick babies who are born to families that love and adore and very much want them. Often they're born to parents whose marriages are intact, and maybe there are older siblings. These are stories that were supposed to be good and are ending in tragedy. It's heartbreaking.
But for me, it's also terrifying. Because I don't have an adoring husband right now. There's only one pitter-patter on my floors. And as much as I'd like that situation to change, the fact remains that for now, it's just the two of us. So if my baby were to become a sick baby, I would be the only one left. I can't look at the photos without seeing my son. I can't read the stories without playing the scenario out in my personal situation. I can't breathe for all of the "what if that happened to us" crowding my lungs. So I look away, scroll down, close the browser window.
Maybe this shows just how self-centered I am. And I do struggle with my own selfishness, every single day. I think that's what being a parent is -- a daily confrontation with your own selfishness. If you're a parent and you give a rat's behind, then you know exactly what I mean.
When I read about sick babies, dying babies, babies that didn't make it, I cry. I say a prayer for the child, for the caregivers, for the families left in the wake. I pray for the parents and their marriages, sending them strength in the face of unspeakable, potentially destructive pain. I pray for any older and younger siblings, that their heritage not be one of shadows, loss, and shoes that are impossible to fill. And I find my little boy, catch his eye, and try for a smile....ever grateful that he is there and smiling.
The truth is, though, that I very rarely read about these tiny children fighting their enormous battles. But their stories are never far from my mind -- the ones I know and the ones I don't. The heartbreak, the fear, and the gratitude, always braided together in the background.
Kyrie, eleison.
These generally are sick babies who are born to families that love and adore and very much want them. Often they're born to parents whose marriages are intact, and maybe there are older siblings. These are stories that were supposed to be good and are ending in tragedy. It's heartbreaking.
But for me, it's also terrifying. Because I don't have an adoring husband right now. There's only one pitter-patter on my floors. And as much as I'd like that situation to change, the fact remains that for now, it's just the two of us. So if my baby were to become a sick baby, I would be the only one left. I can't look at the photos without seeing my son. I can't read the stories without playing the scenario out in my personal situation. I can't breathe for all of the "what if that happened to us" crowding my lungs. So I look away, scroll down, close the browser window.
Maybe this shows just how self-centered I am. And I do struggle with my own selfishness, every single day. I think that's what being a parent is -- a daily confrontation with your own selfishness. If you're a parent and you give a rat's behind, then you know exactly what I mean.
When I read about sick babies, dying babies, babies that didn't make it, I cry. I say a prayer for the child, for the caregivers, for the families left in the wake. I pray for the parents and their marriages, sending them strength in the face of unspeakable, potentially destructive pain. I pray for any older and younger siblings, that their heritage not be one of shadows, loss, and shoes that are impossible to fill. And I find my little boy, catch his eye, and try for a smile....ever grateful that he is there and smiling.
The truth is, though, that I very rarely read about these tiny children fighting their enormous battles. But their stories are never far from my mind -- the ones I know and the ones I don't. The heartbreak, the fear, and the gratitude, always braided together in the background.
Kyrie, eleison.
8.02.2013
nouwen on broader vocation
I'm reading a Nouwen book on discernment and what the process looks like. It's rich stuff, but this is no surprise.
Lately I have felt inexplicably overwhelmed. Certainly being overly tired, having a toddler at home 24/7, and running a little low on funds has something to do with it. But it's felt almost like there's some sort of block against me being able to get as much done as I'd like. It's been frustrating to feel so easily incapacitated. Mama needs a nap.
It's felt a little tough lately. I didn't work for most of June because of some health concerns, and July has been very low-paying as a result. Things will pick back up in August, but if I'm not able to find a way to get more sleep, I will just be burning the candle at both ends. We're in the throes of potty training and it is not going "well" if "well" is defined as "learned quickly," so I spend a LOT more time cleaning than I would prefer (but the alternative of going back to diapers makes the trade-off worth it, in my opinion). Tell any single mama who is at home all day with a toddler that she "shouldn't be this stressed" and just see if she doesn't go ballistic on you; that said, on paper there doesn't seem to be much of a good reason for me to feel as close to the edge as I do. The question "how could this possibly be the right thing to be doing?" keeps me up at night. Something isn't working right.
Turns out, it was me all along.
The other day, surrounded by three dogs and one naked toddler, I snatched a few minutes to lie on the couch and read a couple of pages in the Nouwen book. And what I found was exactly what I needed to hear:
What I learned from testing a call in Latin America is that my broader vocation is simply to enjoy God's presence, do God's will, and be grateful wherever I am. The question of where to live and what to do is really insignificant compared to the question of how to keep the eyes of my heart focused on the Lord. I can be teaching at Yale, working in the bakery at the Genesee Abbey, walking with poor children in Peru, or writing a book, and still feel totally useless. Or I can do these same things and know that I am fulfilling my call. There is no such thing as the right place or the right job. I can be miserable or joyful, restless or at peace, in all situations.
I've been getting too caught up in the notion of "the right place" or "the right thing to do" and measuring myself according to some standard that not only is not realistic, but is entirely self-directed. I've got to cut myself some slack and be realistic about my situation -- the good, the bad, and the temporary. I've also got to start getting to bed at a decent hour. And it's time to get back into morning prayer for sure.
I'm no less tired than I was, but I feel more calmed. The panic and perpetual frustration are starting to subside as my heart gets refocused. Yes, with God's help, I can do this.
Let this be a reminder. Kyrie eleison.
Lately I have felt inexplicably overwhelmed. Certainly being overly tired, having a toddler at home 24/7, and running a little low on funds has something to do with it. But it's felt almost like there's some sort of block against me being able to get as much done as I'd like. It's been frustrating to feel so easily incapacitated. Mama needs a nap.
It's felt a little tough lately. I didn't work for most of June because of some health concerns, and July has been very low-paying as a result. Things will pick back up in August, but if I'm not able to find a way to get more sleep, I will just be burning the candle at both ends. We're in the throes of potty training and it is not going "well" if "well" is defined as "learned quickly," so I spend a LOT more time cleaning than I would prefer (but the alternative of going back to diapers makes the trade-off worth it, in my opinion). Tell any single mama who is at home all day with a toddler that she "shouldn't be this stressed" and just see if she doesn't go ballistic on you; that said, on paper there doesn't seem to be much of a good reason for me to feel as close to the edge as I do. The question "how could this possibly be the right thing to be doing?" keeps me up at night. Something isn't working right.
Turns out, it was me all along.
The other day, surrounded by three dogs and one naked toddler, I snatched a few minutes to lie on the couch and read a couple of pages in the Nouwen book. And what I found was exactly what I needed to hear:
What I learned from testing a call in Latin America is that my broader vocation is simply to enjoy God's presence, do God's will, and be grateful wherever I am. The question of where to live and what to do is really insignificant compared to the question of how to keep the eyes of my heart focused on the Lord. I can be teaching at Yale, working in the bakery at the Genesee Abbey, walking with poor children in Peru, or writing a book, and still feel totally useless. Or I can do these same things and know that I am fulfilling my call. There is no such thing as the right place or the right job. I can be miserable or joyful, restless or at peace, in all situations.
I've been getting too caught up in the notion of "the right place" or "the right thing to do" and measuring myself according to some standard that not only is not realistic, but is entirely self-directed. I've got to cut myself some slack and be realistic about my situation -- the good, the bad, and the temporary. I've also got to start getting to bed at a decent hour. And it's time to get back into morning prayer for sure.
I'm no less tired than I was, but I feel more calmed. The panic and perpetual frustration are starting to subside as my heart gets refocused. Yes, with God's help, I can do this.
Let this be a reminder. Kyrie eleison.
7.31.2013
the long hug goodnight
Last night as I was coaxing my son to sleep, there was a moment that had a deep impact on me. It was about 30 minutes past his bedtime, and he was having some trouble getting to sleep. I'd gone in to respond to the latest wails, prepared to instruct him, firmly but lovingly, to lie down. Instead, I met him at the rail of his crib and asked him if he wanted a hug. He nodded yes, and I picked him up.
In that instant between placing my hands on his waist and lifting him to my shoulder, I felt a profoundly deep sense of being...
Alone.
The word grasped my throat with an iron fist and shook me to my core. You know that instantaneous, panic-induced ice-cold burst you get in the front of your chest that sends your head throbbing and your heart racing? It was like that, except instead of adrenaline it was just a sense.
I am alone.
As I stood with my child, his head on my shoulder and his body draped across mine, I thought about how I am the only one. I'm the only one who could tell by his little face that he needed a hug, not an authoritarian. I'm the only one who knows the full range of his vocabulary, or when he wants a graham cracker not an animal cracker, or whether he wants to "share" my food because he's bored or because he's hungry. It's my job, day in and day out, to teach him that he is worthy of respect, that we do not hurt the ones we love, that God is here.
Certainly there are others who know him and love him. And there are those who have stayed or come alongside me. So we aren't really alone, not really. But at 9 o'clock at night, I'm the only one who hears him sneezing on the baby monitor. No one else reads the parenting books, places a hand on his head to recite the evening's prayer, understands which insert goes with which cloth diaper. My thumb is the only one that marks the sign of the cross his little forehead every night.
So I stood there, hugging my son in the center of his room, well past bedtime and deep into my final reserves of energy for the day. Because he needed a long hug to end his day. And because I was the only one who was there to hug him.
In that instant between placing my hands on his waist and lifting him to my shoulder, I felt a profoundly deep sense of being...
Alone.
The word grasped my throat with an iron fist and shook me to my core. You know that instantaneous, panic-induced ice-cold burst you get in the front of your chest that sends your head throbbing and your heart racing? It was like that, except instead of adrenaline it was just a sense.
I am alone.
As I stood with my child, his head on my shoulder and his body draped across mine, I thought about how I am the only one. I'm the only one who could tell by his little face that he needed a hug, not an authoritarian. I'm the only one who knows the full range of his vocabulary, or when he wants a graham cracker not an animal cracker, or whether he wants to "share" my food because he's bored or because he's hungry. It's my job, day in and day out, to teach him that he is worthy of respect, that we do not hurt the ones we love, that God is here.
Certainly there are others who know him and love him. And there are those who have stayed or come alongside me. So we aren't really alone, not really. But at 9 o'clock at night, I'm the only one who hears him sneezing on the baby monitor. No one else reads the parenting books, places a hand on his head to recite the evening's prayer, understands which insert goes with which cloth diaper. My thumb is the only one that marks the sign of the cross his little forehead every night.
So I stood there, hugging my son in the center of his room, well past bedtime and deep into my final reserves of energy for the day. Because he needed a long hug to end his day. And because I was the only one who was there to hug him.
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