The Ballad of the Working Mother

This year my youngest child turns 18. I can almost see the finish line. I no longer rush anyone to the doctor with ear infections, or stay home with kids who are sick. Of course, there is still the need to support the family, to keep us insured, to keep up with the college bills. But compared with the old days, it's a piece of cake.

I am lucky. I love being a mother and I love the work I do. My oldest son was born in 1977. Every morning, returning to work after a short maternity leave, I would put my little baby, screaming, into the arms of my neighbor, Rosalyn. She would call me later and tell me he was fine. Then I could work.

When my youngest child was a baby, I took him to another neighbor, Janice, whose voice overflowed with softness. She knew I missed being home with my baby, and one day she called me at work to tell me he was standing up in his crib for the first time. I sat at my desk and wept.

Over the years I used every child-care arrangement known to woman. I missed a lot of milestones. Day-care workers toilet-trained my babies and wrote me notes about their days. During some of those years I was married, but I always worked to pay the bills.

By 1989 I had been a single parent for a few years, trying to go back to school, trying to support my family, feeling overwhelmed and exhausted. A minister helped me put things in perspective. She told me cheerfully, "Nowadays, bread winner, bread maker, it's all the same thing." I began to see myself as a mother who supported her family. I began to be proud of myself.

Money was always a problem. Like most working women, I was underpaid and so were the women who cared for my children. When I was finally able to put my youngest child in a preschool, it took a quarter of my monthly take-home salary. But the program was good, and the workers there had health insurance. Most of them were working moms like me, carrying the family benefits package.