Working Mother

I was interviewed in the May issue of Working Mother magazine in an article by Jennifer Owens entitled The Quiet Struggle: From heartbreak to hope: moms of kids with special needs. The mothers in the article have special needs kids of varying diagnoses (some with autism) and ages (3 years old; adults). One mother is a corporate executive, another is the editor of The Elephant in the Playroom: Ordinary Parents Write Intimately and Honestly About the Extraordinary Highs and Heartbreaking Lows of Raising Kids with Special Needs (what a title—says it all), another is a classics professor in Jersey City, New Jersey (that would be me). There are suggestions about getting in “me-time,” nurturing your marriage, making connections with other women with special needs kids.

It means a lot to me to say I’m a working mother. My mother and both grandmothers all worked ( my mom worked part-time for some years so she could pick me up from school everyday and shuttle us to various lessons and appointments; my grandmothers—both born in Southern China—worked a number of jobs while each raising five kids). It’s been a bit of a crazy dance to coordinate work, Charlie, and family and married life. Slowly I’ve learned that dust on a windowsill or recyclables that are still in the kitchen and not in the bin are no big deal—stuff that can be done tomorrow, but what about hurrying over beside Charlie when he asks me to write “Jackie white car tape” or sitting down with Jim to reflect about what it means that we’ve stuck together through four states, several jobs, one autism diagnosis, several changes of household, for almost fifteen years?

It was a few months ago that another working mother (with a grown-up son) gave me a very important piece of advice. She’s a top-level official where I work and I suspect I had a slightly nervous grimace on my face as I tried to explain why I could not make another late afternoon meeting, as that’s when I have to be home with Charlie. “Kristina,” she said, “everyone has something. You just don’t know what everyone has.” She was speaking more than kindly, and in earnest; her background is in nursing and I know she’s seen a lot. “So it’s okay,” she added.

Up till then I had found myself frequently, as in always, referring to Charlie or autism to explain why I was dashing out the door, or why a hysterical voice was yelling “come right now” over my cell phone, or why I had to cancel a class before midterms because Charlie was sick. Ever since talking to my colleague I have not. If there’s a meeting at 3pm, I’ve simply said, “I can’t make that. Can we reschedule?” or, “I have to check first. I’ll email back.” And that’s that.

Taking care of Charlie could be a job in itself. Mothers of autistic children speak of wearing many hats:

Mother, father, friend, teacher, helper, caregiver, advocate, protector, defender, student, educator, playmate, actor, chef, sometimes therapist, picker-upper-after, freedom fighter, peacemaker, doctor, detective, listener, nurse, teknopoinos, chauffeur, coach, companion, believer, seeker of justice, fan, parent.

My job—at a small Jesuit college in Jersey City, one of the most diverse cities in the US—has me wearing a couple more. I teach; advise; and co-direct a program. And recently I found out that I had been awarded tenure at my school, Saint Peter’s College.

So does that make me a tenured working mother?

Though I suspect I earned that one long ago.