Cutting the Monitor Cord

Before I became a mother, I always assumed that I would experience the proverbial cutting of the umbilical cord once my kid hit puberty. You know, when I was no longer cool enough to be seen in public with, when my son was becoming his own man, asserting his independence. I am mentally preparing myself for the kind of mother I will develop into and hope that my love for him will be reciprocated -- probably via a silent code of acknowledgment; a smile, a look, an occasional hug. Sure, I'll wait up until he comes home from a party, but pretend I wasn't waiting up for him -- Oh, I'm just watching TV. Did you have fun? And then he'll proceed to tell me how his life is going. The life I'm no longer the center of, but only an observer with front row seats (I know people. I'm connected like that).


But, when my video monitor broke a couple of days ago, I felt a pang in my chest. No, I'm not ready for this yet! Of course, it's not like the separation I'm going to adjust to in a few years, but I didn't expect to feel such panic over losing my connection to him while he's drifting into peaceful slumber. I don't know how parents did it before video monitors. I love being able to watch him sleep, surrounded by his stuffed animals, completely oblivious to the world. His arms spread out, moving from position to position in his comfy crib. The video monitor isn't so much voyeuristic as it is my umbilical cord to him when he's in his own world of dreams. I miss him when I can't hear the little patters of his feet running around the house. (Walking is not an option. He must RUN everywhere.) I'm not alone in my dependence on this device, my husband loves it too; it's his only chance to "see" him when he comes home at night. Then it serves yet another purpose in the mornings: watching K talk to his bed buddies -- Big Blue Dog, Happy Dog, Mini Dog and Mr. Bear. He babbles to them, maybe telling them about the dreams he had or just checking how they slept.

I went to see an exhibit of Leon Levinstein's New York photographs at the Met the other day. Each portrait more intimate than the next. But one just grabbed me and didn't let me go. It was a picture of a mother cuddling with her baby on a beach. The way she's embracing him with her long elegant arms, with undeniable love. While her baby is nuzzled up into the crook of her neck. They are both laying there, between wakefulness and sleep. That perfect state of bliss. Well, that's how I see me and K. I want us to stay like that forever, but I know we can't. He's growing up so fast and now that I don't have a video monitor, I can't watch him sleep. I'm not ready to let go yet.

When/what was your moment of realization that your baby isn't going to remain in your arms forever?

When I grow up, I want to be a ...

I was always a driven person. As a high school student, I busted my butt to get good grades and get into a good university. While in college (Ivy League) I had my eye on law school and finished my education in 3 years with a 3.75 GPA. Upon graduation, I found myself back in an emotionally abusive relationship with my on-again off-again boyfriend, which led me to want to take a break from studies (to get out of my own head) and instead work (to be around new people). I was hired by a great advertising agency, did really well and after 4 years, I was one of the youngest senior account supervisors. I decided to leave my more corporate job for a career as a stylist and right as things were picking up (magazine calls, good photography team, etc.), I faced the greatest challenge of my life: Infertility. Up until that point I felt like I was destined for greatness...

Here is am now, 5 years later and I find myself wondering what I'd like to do when I grow up. Part of me really envies working moms or even new moms who have an acceptable "excuse" for the 1-2 year emptiness in their resume. How could I possibly even make it to the interview process with the big gap in my resume? Should I just put something like this?

• Motherhood 2009-present (New York, NY)
• Crippled by infertility 2005-08 (New York, NY)

No one would buy that right? ...

I guess I'm disappointed in myself. I thought (as did everyone around me) that I would be making something of my life that would be of note. Don't get me wrong, I feel so lucky to be able to (finally) say I'm a mom (I'm ashamed to even complain when so many are still coping with IF). When I finally became a mom, I thought that title was going to validate me somehow. And in many ways it has. It is truly rewarding and I wouldn't trade it for anything. My son is relatively well behaved, has clean clothes and nutritious food on his plate. I'm doing pretty well overall. But I feel guilty for not being able to say that I'm 100% content. I want more. There. I said it! I feel so guilty about that feeling. I honestly thought that once I became a mother, nothing else would matter. That perhaps my only real ambition was motherhood -- you certainly would have thought so if you'd seen how I dedicated I was to making my infertility treatments work. And now, I wonder what else is in store for me.

I woke up this morning with a new sense of hope and aspiration. I'm thinking of going back to school. A clean slate. A new beginning. Maybe finally an ability to have it all.

I still have to put more thought into this and of course, I'm already thinking of the 100s of reasons why I couldn't possibly go back to school. Money and time being the key hurdles.

Dear readers, do you feel 100% fulfilled?