mama trauma

After what had already been a long day today, with Maya taking fitful naps and Anil having worked until the wee hours last night, sleeping all morning, then working again this afternoon, I debated between taking Maya to the pool and going to the gym as a late afternoon treat. I should have chosen the pool. Why does every attempt to take care of myself end up going so awry? And shouldn't I know by now that it will? This is how moms end up in ill-fitting khaki capris and clogs. It's just so hard to keep up with yourself without feeling like you're always getting bitten in the ass just for trying.

When we went into the gym, Maya was all smiles. She charmed the woman at the front desk and the woman who took her from me in the gym's daycare place. Her track record at the gym isn't great, but last time I took her we made a breakthrough. I brought baby rice crackers for her to munch on, and she hung out for a whole hour. I, meanwhile, did my usual twenty minutes on the elliptical, then stretched, expecting someone with a logo-embroidered black polo shirt to come get me at any moment. When they didn't appear, I got on the treadmill, but after pressing the stop button and stepping off the machine twice when someone in a black shirt so much as entered my peripheral vision, I gave up on working out more and sat in the cafe, dazed and drinking a smoothie.

I had no idea if we'd have a repeat performance, but other times, they've come to get me when Maya just isn't having it, and twenty minutes is better than none. I refused to let myself be so self-conscious of her out-of-character stranger danger that it kept me from trying to work out at all.

So today, I ran on the treadmill for 25 minutes. Then I stretched and did some core work. I dropped Maya off just after 4:10 and went back at 5:00, having not been interrupted by a looming polo shirt.

Internet, I think she cried the entire time. The entire time I was working out, I kept my eyes open for anyone in a gym logo shirt who might be looking for someone, knowing that someone would be me. I saw no one. They had my name, and I had a sticker on my shirt that's supposed to tell them which child is mine for this very situation--when they come looking for you on the floor. There is also a picture of me in the system, in case they don't remember what I look like after I drop her off.

Somehow, today, none of this worked. And as far as I could tell, they were too busy to care. I was SO upset. Maya stopped crying as soon as they brought her to me, but that's about when I started. They said they couldn't get my photo to come up, they sent someone around the floor but she didn't know who she was looking for, and she sure didn't make much of a show about it or else I would have noticed. They were about to take her to the gym floor, screaming, in order to find me. Really?!?

For the record, Maya is totally fine. She fell asleep as soon as I put her in the car and woke up with a smile. She had organic carrots for dinner al fresco in her high chair on our back deck, followed by a bubble bath. I, however, am still trying to recover.

Here's the irony of it all. I was listening to an old Fresh Air interview with Judith Warner, the author of the book Perfect Madness: Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety while on the treadmill. Warner was talking about how for women today, motherhood becomes this all-encompassing lifestyle in which there is no room for taking care of oneself. Systems in America aren't set up to support women in achieving balance. There I was, thinking, "Not me! I'm at the gym. I'm taking advantage of the child care that this gym offers and I'm taking this hour for myself. "

FAIL.

Not so much, huh? See what I get for trying to take time for myself? Guilt and more guilt. If I had taken her to the pool, none of this would have happened. I know, I know... it was just this one afternoon. Everyone is fine--it was separation anxiety, not a concussion. I have to take care of myself to take care of everyone else. Blah blah snore. But it sucked, Internet. It sucked. And it sucks that it's so so hard to take time for yourself once you're a mom, and that, in fact, as Judith Warner lamented, structures aren't necessarily in place to help you do so. Sometimes it seems like they're there to just make you feel worse. And how come we have to feel like taking time for ourselves takes time away from others? Why do knowing we deserve it and feeling like it's okay seem like two separate concepts?

As they handed me my puffy eyed bunny rabbit and explained the situation, I had to keep stopping myself from saying, "I'm sorry." Because that's what comes naturally. I'm sorry that she cried. I'm sorry that you couldn't find me. I'm sorry for the entire situation because I'm a girl and I apologize for things that aren't really my fault, and as a mom, I feel responsible for everything. Doesn't it sound ridiculous written out like that? But I wasn't sorry, and I didn't say it. At least that felt like a victory. And now I'm off to follow Judith Warner on Twitter.

Also, I just stress ate any calories burned at the gym.