Everyday I'm hustling

Here's one question a woman post-partum dreads more than "when are you having your next baby?": "When are you going back to work?" To a mom on maternity leave from her full-time job, this question might make her guilt-ridden as she thinks about leaving her newborn baby in someone else's care. To a mom who's decided to quit her job to care for her child, this question might make her feel worthless, bristle and think, "Ain't I working now?" For me, it opened a whole can of worms. My work situation was so confusing. First, I'd been laid off at seven months pregnant from a job that I had spent 11 years working to acquire. I rose to the top and fell in three months due to a faltering industry. Second, I nearly immediately took a freelance editing gig for an upstart real estate magazine, despite promises to everyone and God that I was going to give myself time to read, write, bake, take long strolls, and, of course, care for the baby. I considered the gig a fun thing to do and bonus money. This is why I never really considered it working, because to me work means showering, putting on heels and going to an uncomfortable office with people you typically don't really like. Thus, the week we brought Adeline home, there I was with only two hours of sleep, scraggly hair and a nursing baby attached to me, trying to edit. Although stressful, there was a part of me that clung to the job because it was the only thing familiar at a time when everything else was completely foreign. I was caught in a strange land, between professional woman with people to manage and a task list a mile long and new mom with spit up running down her back, no make up on and a screaming infant. It seemed to me that I wanted to be both people. I wondered how long I could keep it up. Mind you, I had no child care. So, when people asked THAT question, it made me feel all the things both a working and a non-working mom felt: Guilty for neglecting her cries while I tried to finish an e-mail; longing for the full-time immediate feedback one gets in an office; and stressed trying to juggle laundry and libel law in one afternoon. I could have given the gig up at any point in the early weeks, but I stuck in there, knowing that we needed the money. I was trying to buy myself time. Although painful to work in those first few weeks, I also knew that it would be harder for me to stick her in daycare and head off to a full-time office job five months after she was born. Eventually, it wore on me, though, and after much thought, I raised my rate and the publisher decided I had become too expensive. Again, I promised to take three months off to run, play with Adeline, garden, bake and write. Yet, I haven't given myself much time to breathe. I have this innate impulse to always be hustling for work. I started working at the age of 8 when I opened my own car wash business, JC Buckets and Rags, and cleaned all the neighbors cars on Sundays for $5 per vehicle. I also house sat for people, watered lawns and baby sat. When I got my work permit at the age of 14, I immediately got a job doing inventory at the beauty supply store where my sister and her friends worked. I sat on a crate in a basement underneath the mall counting Matrix, Nexus and Biolage bottles for hours. I eventually worked my way upstairs to the sales floor and really haven't stopped holding down jobs since. Even when I was laid off from my dot-com job I didn't take a pause. My friend Aimee and I were given brown paper bags and Cobra insurance packets along with 50 others as our dot-com disaster of a job sent us packing. They claimed to have run out of money, which was easy to understand seeing as though we ordered a king's ransom worth of Dorritos and beer from Webvan every week. The next day Aimee and I were employed at a weekly newspaper on the Peninsula, despite the fact that the night before we drank ourselves silly discussing our newfound freedom. Today, I find myself in a bit of a bind. I didn't choose not to work, as most new moms might. I sort of got forced into unemployment, and although I do have a full-time employer named Adeline Isabel Aquino I can't shake the feelings of inadequacy. So, the day after I promised to take it easy, I found myself on Craigslist hustling again. I don't know how I plan to manage this, seeing as though I haven't ironed out big issues, like child care. In my dream world, someone would find me terribly fascinating, pay me gobs of money to write about my life, and allow me to work from home. They'd throw in free child care and allow me enough paid time off every year to travel for three months. I haven't found that gig yet, though. So, I'll keep hustling. 

Jesus just cleared your debt

I always thought that as a parent I’d be wiser, more knowledgable and more experienced than my child, but this week proved me wrong. At only six months, Adeline accomplished something that her mother hasn’t: She got in with God. That’s to say she was baptized as a Catholic. By blood I’m a Lutheran. But since I’ve never been baptized I suppose I’m really, well, nothing. 

I have barely ever set foot in church, except for the two years I went to preschool at a non-denominational Presbyterian church in San Carlos and our once a year pilgrimage to Hope Lutheran church at Christmas, primarily for the ceremony of it all, not the religion. We never talked about religion in my house, not because we didn’t believe in God. No one objected to religion nor spoke ill of it; it just never came up. I never thought twice about why our family didn’t go to church. In part, I was thankful. I watched my friends spend half a day holed up in Bible study every Sunday and ironically thanked God that I didn’t have to give up my tree climbing and roller skating practice to attend. That’s until I met Andrew, my husband. By then, I was done building fortresses and shimmying up our willow tree every weekend. But I still didn’t think church sounded fun. I thought of it as an obligation, like taking out the trash or going to the DMV. Like most 16-year-olds, my spirituality consisted of thanking God when something went right and scorning him when it went wrong. 

This changed the first time I went to Midnight Mass with Andrew on Christmas Eve. Andrew’s mom is next in line to fill Mother Theresa’s shoes. The woman would give her body and every penny to the Catholic church if she didn’t need them to exist. A picture of the Pope used to hang over the washing machine in their house. She’s never missed a church service and used to minister to those bedridden souls too sick to make it to mass. Her devotion has translated to three children with deep respect for the church and a divine knowledge of religion. I didn’t understand the importance of religion until that Christmas Eve. I sat in church wide-eyed, with the heavy scent of incense swirling around me as the priest cloaked in sashes spoke about Jesus’ birth. I’d heard the story before in Lutheran services, but somehow it seemed new to me in the dead of night. I had always thought of Jesus as this fairytale character, who was untouchable, unrealistic. The Bible seemed to be a fabulously written tale as believable, yet engaging, as the “Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe”. But that night the priest described Jesus in a way that made him sound as real and human as me. 

Afterward, I spent an hour asking Andrew 101 questions about religion. This lasted for days and months after. “Who was Peter?” “Why was Jesus put on a cross?” “What’s the difference between Lutherans and Catholics?” I started to feel ashamed by my lack of knowledge and jealous of Andrew’s religious devotion. It wasn’t like Andrew prayed every day or even attended church regularly, much to his mother’s chagrin. But he had faith and knowledge. Over the years, Andrew’s become my religious teacher, schooling me on who’s who in the Bible. I’ve often thought of being baptized, not only because I SHOULD understand the Bible, but because I don’t want to be a lonely soul with no place to go when I die. Although there’s a part of me that thinks heaven and hell are as real as Elvis being alive, I don’t want to chance it. I’m superstitious about it, like I am about stepping on a crack or breaking a mirror. 

So, I’ve considered Catholicism, which seems an obvious choice, since I’m married to a Catholic. But it seems arbitrary to make such an important spiritual decision based on your spouse’s beliefs. In all, it’s a vexing decision that will probably take me a lifetime to muddle through. On Saturday, I watched Monsignor drip water over the peach fuzz atop Addie’s head. She looked up with indifference. I looked down with admiration. Andrew touched the dew on her head and later tapped my head. He said, “I’ve baptized you now.” I smiled, only wishing it were that easy. Later that weekend, I walked past a Baptist Church with a sign proclaiming: “Got bad credit? Jesus just cleared your debt.” Adeline’s a lucky lady, I thought. Someday her father will teach her all that he knows and, yes, she will learn from the Bible. She may decide that she doesn’t believe in the religion we’ve chosen for her, but at th

Sleep be with you

It was just a slip of the tongue, one of those things you half- consciously utter when you’re mind is adrift. Yet, what I said sums up what’s been missing from my life since Adeline was born – sleep. I attended a mass said in my grandmother’s name on a rainy Monday morning. It was early – 8 a.m. to be exact – and it was no small feat to get myself and Addie, purses, strollers, diapers and bottles into the car in pouring down rain and make it to the service on time. I huffed into the church, soggy and lugging Addie, sliding into a pew next to my mother-in-law, Maureen. The service had already started, but I arrived just in time to hear the Fillipino priest say my grandmother’s name: “This service is in memory of Dorrai Baley.” Actually, it’s Doris Bailey, but his accent mangled it a bit. I dreamily watched the service, drifting into memories of my fit and perfectly coifed grandmother who ran a marathon in her 60s and swam miles daily for years. I drifted back into the service during the hug thy neighbor portion. I know there’s a formal name for it, but I’m not Catholic and have rarely attended church, except for Christmas. (Sorry Maureen.) I do know that I am to shake hands, hug and kiss strangers and say “Peace be with you.” But on this particular day I was sleepy, practically comatose after five months of sleeplessness. So when my neighbor turned to me and said, “Peace be with you”, I said, “Sleep be with you.” She giggled a bit, seeing the infant cradled snuggly in her car seat at my side. Addie smiled on cue. For five months now, this tiny thing has kept me awake. I know the sleeplessness is hard on every parent, but for me it’s been particularly hard. See sleep is something that’s never come easy for me. As far back as my sister can recall, I “bonked my head” and said a chant every night for sometimes an hour on end to put myself to sleep. I’d slam my head against my pillow repeatedly and say “I love mommy, I love daddy, I love Sally (when I was mad at her it was, “I sometimes love Sally”) and I love Erick.” I did this every night, regardless of what time it was or how tired I might be. I can only imagine what my parent’s friends must have thought of the Christgau’s “special” child. I gave it up eventually, which is a good thing. I think dorm life would have been tough if I’d continued. I was then left to wrestle with my very active imagination on a nightly basis. I’d go through phases where turning my brain off would be impossible. I’s run down lists; worry about work, friends, family; and develop the most unlikely of scenarios to concern myself. Before you know it, it’s 2 a.m. and not a wink of sleep has occurred. In college, I’d watch infomercials and read math textbooks at all hours of the night. That only led me to that drowsy state where you repeatedly see the same string of images: Impossible math equations being hawked by a blond bimbo in a cheap dress, over and over and over again. I am not one of those functioning insomniacs. When I’d fall into a pattern of sleeplessness, days were impossible. I’d list about, close to tears, hopeful that nightfall would bring sleep. I’d fall into bed, only to remain in fear of another restless night. I broke this pattern when I became pregnant. I could fall asleep in an instant. I even started napping. I slept so well that I couldn’t even remember my dreams. I should never have gotten a taste of good sleep like that. Before Addie was born, people would comment, “Get your sleep now.” I thought I understood, but I had no idea. I was even cocky about it. I thought since I’d lived with insomnia, I’d be OK. I also thought these people were prone to exaggeration. The first night she was born, she slept like a champ. I thought, this is easy. Every night after that, I’ve eaten my words. For weeks, days didn’t seem to end. Saturday become Monday and Monday became Wednesday. Those first six weeks are a blur of diapers, feedings and laundry. I fed the cat dog food; I forgot birthdays, appointments; I couldn’t remember my parent’s names; I got my conditioner and shampoo confused; I baked a cake and forgot to use eggs. I became obsessed with sleep. I started to interrogate everyone, regardless of whether they had a child or not, on how much sleep they got. It became part of my normal salutation: “Hi, How are you? How much sleep did you get last night?” I started to crave it, like you need water after a 10 mile hike in desert heat. Parents of toddlers would smile at my puffy eyes and assure me that, yes, sleep would return again, but it would never be the same. Friends without children would look at my weary smile and tales of sleeplessness and their faces would say it all: I AM NEVER HAVING CHILDREN. But, then it comes. The first time Adeline slept for six hours, I, the typical parent, woke up in a fit, like I’d overslept for work. Wide eyed, I rushed to the crib to find her deep in slumber. I’m told we’re lucky that Adeline can sleep for up to eight hours at a time. But I’m still not getting any sleep. How can you? I’m responsible for someone else’s life. I have a whole new element in my matrix of nighttime worrying. And just as my brain begins to tire of my anxieties and I begin to drift off, someone needs to be fed. I’ve resigned myself to a lifetime of sleeplessness. I look at my parents and think they must be exhausted; surely they haven’t slept in the 40 years since my brother’s arrival.

New beginnings

My name is Jennifer Aquino and I used to be the ME at the San Mateo County Times and then moved over to the Merc as the NCE. In July I was laid off from the Merc after only three months. To boot, I was seven months pregnant. The week I started at the Merc the layoffs were announced. I wasn't one of THOSE women who planned on taking a maternity leave and never returning. I specifically chose to work nights at the Merc because it would make daycare far cheaper. For the three months after the initial announcement about posible layoffs, I fretted, but thought, "Surely, they won't be cold-hearted enough to pull me from the Times and then lay me off seven months pregnant." Uh, I thought wrong. I remember the phone call from Carole Leigh Hutton that last week of June. I was eating cereal and watching my daughter kick my rib cage. Hutton told me the week before that she highly doubted I'd be laid off. She ate her words that morning. I felt like I'd been shot in the heart. After 10 years of receiving deplorable pay, working on computers from the '80s propped up on phone books and getting very little respect, I felt defeated. How was I going to find a job now? Who in the Bay Area was even hiring? More importantly, would my soon-to-be-born child, husband and I end up on a street panhandling? For weeks I wondered whether knowing my destiny in advance would have helped me prepare. In the end, it wouldn't have made a difference. I would have just spent more time worrying and then even more time wondering what was wrong with me. I spent a lot of time feeling quite worthless and thinking that my evaulation card read somewhat like a rap sheet of all my imperfections. We were given the option of viewing these and I decided against it. Some things, like your destiny, are best left a mystery. Fast forward seven months and one healthy baby later and I have incredible perspective on the episode. Am I homeless? No. I fell into a freelance gig lauching a new real estate magazine covering the Bay Area. Hutton also recommended me to help write the Mama's Guide for the Bay Area. Work just seemed to find me. Maybe I was lucky, but I like to think it's because I finally laid to rest an industry that I'd been trying to keep alive because I'd invested so much of myself in it. I didn't want to let go because I sacrificed moving to exotic locations, having fancy things and a personal life. But, in the end, I decided that there was little left of the industry that resembled the passion and energy that originally excited me. I decided that as painful as this may be, I had to rethink my career and reapply my skills. Also now that I'm out of the daily grind of journalism, I realize just how unhappy I was. Let's face it, we journalists prey on devastation, and it can affect you in ways you might not realize. I also began to read newspapers again as a true consumer and found that, in large part, barely any of it applied or interested me. While I've picked up some freelance work, I know it won't last forever, so I'm considering my options. I have no idea what will be next, but I know there will be a next. And to daydream about what that is, is exciting. To think that I'll be fired up about my job again, like the first day I worked for the Stockton Record and spent five hours in 110 degree heat covering a propane fire, is refreshing. I suppose I could still end up homeless. But I know that I survived the worst part, letting go. Sorry that this is somewhat rambling, but I wanted to let those on the brink know that there is life after this industry. Whether it's now or six years from now, journalism in the traditional sense is on a road to nowhere. You are going to have to pull off at some point, so, I suppose the question to ask yourself is: Is it more painful now or later?