July 16, 2009
I’m sitting on the patio at the downtown Bakehouse, poised to write my column. After digging through my purse in search of my earphones, then untangling them from the tube of lipstick I rarely use, I am plugged into my laptop with Aerosmith’s “Dream On” filling my ears and a deadline looming. I hope the song choice isn’t prophetic.
I’m writing with the topic of work-family balance in mind, which seems appropriate as I feel the afterburn from a tense morning with my 11 year-old daughter. Most of our morning struggles are over her difficulty getting out of bed. Right now, she’s suffering from sleep deprivation induced by late nights reading “Harry Potter.” I haven’t been strict about making her turn off the reading light — who am I to discourage her from reading? (J.K. Rowling, I bless and curse you in the same breath. Note to H.P. fanatics: This is not an actual curse.)
It’s summer, and summer is for staying up late, sleeping in and roaming through the fields barefoot, playing outside all day until it’s time to catch lightning bugs. These were the summers I knew for many years. I woke up each morning and wandered into the kitchen sleepy-eyed to the sounds of Phil Donahue on our small black and white TV. I wouldn’t trade these memories for anything.
This summer, my daughter hasn’t had many Phil Donahue-ish mornings. I’ve been working more, recently taking the leap into renting an office space for my business, and feeling more pressure to show up there regularly.
I was my daughter’s age when my mom went to work full time. I remember wearing a house key on a string around my neck to school, often forgetting that key and entering the house by taking the screen out of my bedroom window and forcing the glass pane open enough to climb through.
Finding a work-family balance has been one of my deepest values since the moment the pregnancy test was positive. Like those parallel pink lines in the little window, my motherhood mission lined up before me with military precision. In my heart, I knew I wanted to be as present as possible for my child. For me, that meant working from home.
For the past 11 years, I’ve chosen the precarious world of self-employment in order to find the flexibility I need. I have carried the torch for moms working from home, starting our own businesses, cradling our nursing babies in one arm while typing e-mails with the other, holding on to the thread of showing up for our professional lives while holding the center of caring for our children.
And now I find myself feeling tired — and distinctly lacking in 401(k). I wonder how much professional equity I have built up these 11 years, working for myself from my basement office, spending many, many hours alone each day trying to get the work done before I hear the squeal of the school bus brakes outside.
I envision a future where there are more choices for working mothers, flexible working arrangements and a steady paycheck with benefits. Employers need to recognize there is strength in diversity, and a diverse work force includes working parents with varying needs and preferences.
I guess there is still hope that my writing career will turn out like J.K. Rowling’s, and even if it doesn’t, I know all is well. As I jam out to the music on my headphones, I remember the excitement I felt as a teenager at rock concerts in Market Square Arena.
I’m still that girl who loved to run barefoot in the grass and spend summer days playing in Stoutes Creek. But maybe I should turn the volume down. I don’t want to get hearing damage.
Kim Evans is a Bloomington native and IU graduate who moved back to Bloomington in 2005 to open her graphic design studio, raise her family and circle back to her writing. She can be reached at kimevans_columnist@att.net.
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