My son rests his head in tthe hollow where my arm meets my chest, as if it were made for him.
As I kiss his forehead I feel the head radiating from his skull; he’s too warm. 103.2. My guess was off, only 101.4. No better than yesterday, I’m afraid. Worse, even. What will we do tomorrow?
We settle back in as we have nearly every night since he’s been born- he sleeps best on my chest or at my side.
When his inky brown eyes meet mine, his eyelids soften. His breathing slows. He is home.
And I am home too.
Such tenderness is fleeting
But a tear sheds down my face as I think about the email exchange I sent my program this morning, begging for an exception to take sick days from the pool of PTO, instead of counting them separate. And my throat tightened when I think of my most recent evaluation, which stated “judging by the amount of sick days she uses, Lauren’s professionalism is questionable.”
Did I think this would all be much easier? What do I mourn? My alternate existence without children? No…
Being a mother to my son and daughter is the most important job I have right now. My patients can find another doctor. My employer can find another worker.
My children have only me as their mother.
Our (American) society doesn’t value this labor of raising intelligent, compassionate, secure beings. And it took having kids for me to understand this.
Such work is in my world, an expected and yet elective contribution.
But that doesn’t make it any less important.
Med-Derm, MD 