By Short-Thompson, Cady
My professorial life and personal life form an odyssey so intertwined and public it’s impossible to separate them from each other. Both of my worlds have been rewarding, exhausting, and frustrating; combined, they’re even more so. I began my academic career as a tenure track professor of Communication at age twenty- eight and within my first academic year, announced my first pregnancy. I recall being blissful that we were able to conceive, but less excited to tell my male coordinator and male chair that I was expecting. My chair responded as one would hope-he was elated for us and promised that he’d do what he could to be flexible for me in the months ahead. However, my coordinator was less positive, seeming surprised that I’d already pursue having a child but said “with women on faculty, these things happen” and that the department would have to be “progressive.” These things happen? We wanted to have a baby! Needless to say, I preferred the first reaction of elation and support from the chair. My other colleagues were pleased for my husband and me and offered help, support, and friendly advice. Nevertheless, I avoided talking excessively about my pregnant state except to answer questions with a standard, upbeat, and always general, “I feel great.” I learned the department’s norms upon hearing one faculty member describe his wife’s hysterectomy as surgery “down there,” and on numerous occasions I heard a story about the infamous female lecturer who actually breastfed her newborn baby in faculty meetings. I read my male colleagues’ cues to sense that pregnancy was surely more personal than professional; and, as a result, conversations about anything specific, like doctor’s exams, pain, breastfeeding, vaginal birth, or episiotomies, were as rhetorically out of bounds in my workplace as the topic of the sex that led to my pregnancy. Pregnancy may be a natural, normal thing but a pregnant professor was hardly a common sight, much less one who discloses details.
A lecturer in my department, who wasn’t on the tenure track, asked periodically if T was going to return after the baby was born- each time she spoke to me, I imagined a vulture circling above my head. My most senior male colleague offered an amusing (and sometimes annoying) reaction to my pregnancy, as he was convinced that I’d go into labor in the hallway from month six of my pregnancy onward. He grew increasingly nervous as my due date approached, offering to carry my books to class (four doors down the hall), and, while surely well-intentioned, he treated me like I was disabled, not pregnant. As the first pregnant tenure track woman in my department in decades, I was determined to work until the day before my baby was born as if I had something to prove about my work ethic and personal strength. In a much broader sense, I felt that I needed to prove what strong women are capable of handling “well.” Oddly, I felt strong, proud, and resilient as I worked until the day before our first child was born via caesarian section. That was. perhaps, the last moment I felt at the helm of my own life.
On, September 11, 1997, our first child, Elizabeth Kay (whom we called Libby), was born. We later deemed her breech position prophetic as she proceeded to turn our lives completely upside down. The expected joy of her arrival was immediately altered by the crushing sadness that accompanied her in the form of a fatal genetic disease. Within seconds of her birth, we knew that something was wrong. For two days, her doctors ran tests and discovered that she had a fatal, autosomal recessive genetic disease called Smith Lemli Opitz syndrome. We were stunned and overwhelmed that two healthy people could create such a terribly unhealthy baby, learning later that our odds of both of us carrying this rare gene were one in 30,000. Before we could grow accustomed to being the parents of a daughter, we learned that we would lose her. Imagine the highest and lowest moment of your life separated by mere seconds-that was Libby. We were told that she could live anywhere from two days to two years; and so we began the strangest of parenting odysseys with her.
After three weeks in the local Children’s Hospital, we were able to bring her home with the assistance of a pediatrie hospice group. We were proud of the loving care and non-stop attention we gave our daughter. She lived for seven weeks-exactly fifty days-and my husband and I clung to each other and to Libby as we both stayed away from our offices for her entire life. To this day, my proudest accomplishments arc coping with the life and death of our daughter, surviving with our marriage intact, and then finding the strength to deliver the homily at her memorial service. The stories and lessons learned about the juggling act of professorial life and parenting pale in comparison to the mammoth challenges of those fifty days with Little Libby. Always the student, this professor learned-about genetic diseases, love, strength, good care, compassion, friendship, our marriage, loyalty, and the importance of communication.
During that period my intimate connections, sense of cohesiveness with my workplace, and loyalty to my colleagues were formed. During Libby’s short life and the months that followed her death, I knew that my departmental colleagues cared about me. Not only did they provide for us physically with flowers, plants, meals, cards, and visits, but they extended themselves to me emotionally. I was told that when the news of my daughter’s fatal illness hit the department, there was a palpable sadness in the hallways. Another colleague said that it didn’t feel good again until I felt like myself again (which was well over a year later). I was new to the department by all accounts but through their willingness to shoulder our grief and sadness, I felt loved and supported. Unlike when I announced my pregnancy, I suddenly felt like one of them, not an odd. female “other.” Pregnancy felt so obviously feminine and most of my colleagues related it to their wives’ experience (only four out of twenty-seven colleagues were female); however, while pregnancy was feminine, the grief I felt was universal and androgynous. My colleagues traveled this emotional journey with me and I appreciated their company.
Two examples of the bonds I built with my colleagues illustrate this part of my odyssey. One male colleague came to our daughter’s hospital room, where he gently held her, sang to her, and prayed with us. Another colleague called me nearly daily for more than fifty days to leave upbeat, encouraging messages on my answering machine, knowing that we’d check our messages after returning from sixteen hour days in the hospital. These examples, two of many, demonstrate how due to the love and good care of my colleagues and the patience they all exercised, I found my way back to normalcy and developed a strong sense of loyalty to the department and university. I had found my place in the departmental family. I wasn’t always entirely comfortable with such a publicly felt grief as my colleagues and students quickly learned the harsh truth about Libby. Watching kind, inquiring people transformed from expectant joy to crushing sadness within one sentence over and over again was painful for me. But as I look back, I am convinced that by handling the mourning up front, I was able to face it, cope healthily, and press on.
The next year dragged by as I cried daily, processing what had happened to my dream of a family. My husband and I debated daily whether we’d ever have other children. With an autosomal recessive genetic disease, the chances of another fatally ill child would be one in four in each successive pregnancy. Talk about rotten odds. We didn’t think we could stand the risk of having yet another child who would die. My rawest memories are of crying alone while drying my hair every morning before work as I craved biological motherhood. I wanted a “do-over”-to know what a happy birth felt like, since my experience was utterly painful. I spent much of 1998 crying, praying, talking, hoping, and wondering if I’d be a parent again. For a woman who seldom cries, this emotional turmoil and turbulence made for an extraordinarily long year. As the months passed, I was truly grateful to have a workplace where I could spend long hours, as I threw myself into my career to cope with my grief. In contrast to my first experience with motherhood, work felt productive and normal. I felt far more at home at the university than in our house with its empty nursery and uncertain future.
Eighteen anguishing months later, we felt infinitely luckier as we welcomed a healthy baby son named Alex into our lives. When 1 announced that we were expecting, and that the prenatal tests confirmed a healthy pregnancy, my departmental colleagues were uniformly happy, supportive, and optimistic. My colleagues’ reactions reminded me of how my own relatives responded; a far cry from the “these things happen” response my first pregnancy announcement elicited. Our son was a huge, healthy boy, and my families (relatives and departmental) welcomed him enthusiastically. This time, my colleagues even visited my home to meet Alex and continually inquired about him at work. In essence, as they had shared my sadness, they were equally good about sharing my joy, stories, and photographs of my wonderfully typical, healthy baby. Alex’s healthy normalcy changed everything and the three of us fell into a beautiful routine that worked relatively easily for nearly four years. A great sleeper with an easy-going temperament, Alex was fairly simple to juggle and I managed to earn tenure and promotion when he was three years old. Soon after I exited the tenure track, I entered the family track full force with the adoption of our third child, Skye. Real challenges and now a new juggling act started, not at work but at home. People often remark, “You’re not really a parent until you have more than one child.” While I find the comment obnoxious, I understood its meaning in terms of the exhaustion and dynamics that accompany a family of four. A five-month-old baby from South Korea, Skye Yoon was the perfect addition to our family. Beautiful, active, happy, and healthy, she completed our “American family dream” of a boy and a girl child. Her brother welcomed her without jealousy as he had waited four years to experience a sibling. But after Skye arrived, we never quite caught up, noting that our house was never clean, the laundry was never done, and at work we lived much closer to our deadlines than ever before. The demands of two children, two careers, and the accompanying divided attention depleted us.
Just as we began to adjust our expectations (accept a messier house and consume carry-out food a few times each week) and master parenting two children, I took a sabbatical to conduct campaign communication research on the presidential campaign trail. During that sabbatical, I was shocked to learn that I was pregnant. Our fourth child, Seth, born during my year-long sabbatical, didn’t count as a product of my sabbatical: I still had research to conduct, write, and submit to journals. However, we were incredibly lucky to welcome another healthy baby into our family and knew from that moment on in our ongoing odyssey, we’d be in a dead run. Moreover, now we were outnumbered with three children under the age of six! Unlike the older two, the younger two epitomize sibling rivalry and have been wrestling, pulling hair, hitting, yelling, and generally fighting over absolutely everything (toys, my attention, food, fairness, and the like) since 2005. While I continue to step back and reflect on how completely fortunate we are to have three healthy children, especially given our experience with Libby, and jobs we love, we have discovered some of the special problems and challenges that exist in this marathon we’re running together. What follows are descriptions of some of the institutional and personal challenges that I have since faced as a communication professor raising three children.
Early on, I grew to understand why mothers around the country weren’t satisfied with their maternity leave policies. Our university’s leave policy actually fell under disability leave which, given how my senior colleague treated me as disabled during my first pregnancy, explained a lot. Not only was the disability leave poorly labeled, but it wasn’t adequate in length. In the first pregnancy, I knew that I’d want more than the three weeks provided in the disability leave, so I simply asked my supportive chair for a minimum of eight weeks paid leave. In that first leave, I informed him that I would find suitable substitutes for my classes, prepare them with my materials (literally all they’d need to just walk in and teach), and then asked him to offer the substitutes some remuneration for their time. Thankfully and amazingly since I had only been on faculty for one year, my chair accepted my proposal. In the second and fourth leaves, I was fortunate in the timing of April births, which fell at the end of spring semester and allowed me to be on unofficial but adequate “leave” all summer long. My shortest leave was in the adoption of our daughter, Skye, which occurred over a three-week winter break. At the beginning of the spring semester, I eased back in to teaching my classes and offering office hours without fulfilling any other professional functions for about a month.
The university’s maternity leave policy is still inappropriately brief and policies differ substantially as mine did from leave to leave, from department to department. What I’ve found is that those outside of permanent, tenure track positions, have the worst maternity leaves, as one of our lecturers only took three weeks away for the birth of her baby last year. When I complained that this short leave wasn’t reasonable, that she’d be exhausted, and I’d be willing to cover for her, the chair explained that this is what she wanted, what she insisted upon. The words sounded ridiculous to me as he said them, and every woman in our department knew that she was only taking three weeks to remain in good favor and look like the trouper that we’d grown accustomed to over the years. From another perspective, I couldn’t help thinking that three weeks off wasn’t healthy for the mother or the baby, but it might be healthy for her career-if it helped her keep her temporary position. As women professors in different departments heard that I negotiated a version of a maternity leave better than the university’s disability leave, they approached me in hushed voices, often off campus, asking me to help them to get better leaves from their supervisors and so I did.
Since returning from my first maternity leave over ten years ago, I’ve received a number of comments from my colleagues that have made me feel uncomfortable or cast me as an “other.” Some have remarked that they’re amazed at all I do. Although this comment sounds complimentary, it also sounds like I’m superhuman or a machine and I tire of being analyzed and given unsolicited reviews by people who are not my supervisors. Comments such as, “How do you do it” and “You’re a super woman” often irritate me. My cranky inner dialogue, which I have had the good sense never to vocalize, says, “You have literally no clue all I’m juggling. You have the luxury of a partner who stays at home to care for your children, your home, and you. I would love to not have so many chores to juggle and people to please- You cannot imagine how completely exhausted I am.” Instead, I smile, take what may be intended as a compliment, press on, and say something like, “It’s easy when you love what you do.” I believe that such performances have been Emmy worthy. Most offensive and irritating, however, is the question frequently asked behind my back, “Will she quit?” That question illustrates two unsafe assumptions about me: I am in this profession as a hobby and I am wrong to work full-time and have three children. Colleagues who know me scoff at these questions, as I’m driven, ambitious, and very committed to my professorial life.
The biggest challenge I faced, and still face, was sheer exhaustion and mind-numbing fatigue, especially during the months following the birth and breastfeeding of my biological babies. I typically slept four hours a night before teaching four classes, advising over a hundred students, publishing, and serving on over a dozen committees and task forces. I was so sleep-deprived, that my stumbling, stuttering speech patterns began to resemble Daffy Duck’s. Some days, I could barely complete a coherent sentence during class and rarely called my children by their correct names at home. Some mornings, I washed my hair over and over, having forgotten I’d already used shampoo. Other days, I’d place the milk in the pantry and the cereal in the refrigerator, much to my children’s amusement. With a venti-sized coffee in hand, and every so often a blue sock and a black sock donned by accident, I ran from home to work and back again, mostly out of the utter fear of failure as a professor and as a mother. I didn’t want to whine to my male colleagues too much about this race, as I might elicit unsolicited advice like, “Why don’t you slow down, take a break, or quit?” I often remarked that I loved my work and I loved my kids. But, I didn’t love the running back and forth, always feeling behind, overwhelmed, and fearful that all of the fragile glass balls I juggled would (or will) come cascading down if I ever stopped moving. I rarely admitted my fatigue, concerns about inadequacy, or fear of failure. Instead. I pressed forward, even if without much grace, natural energy, or matching socks.
Even so, I’m compelled to recognize the good treatment I’ve received from supervisors and chairs since becoming a mother. The flexible hours I have-my chair and coordinator have been incredibly flexible in scheduling my classes around my sitter needs-allow me to maximize my time with my babies. I have worked from home at least one full day a week, and I always try to pick up my oldest child from grade school at 3:15. Although I’m not certain that all of my colleagues, male or female, have supported my use of flextime and I’ve sometimes felt a tinge defensive about my hours, I go out of my way to work harder, faster, and respond more rapidly via e-mail than I probably would have otherwise.
Many unexpected positive outcomes have resulted from my juggling act, such as the recruitment of numerous talented female faculty members in recent years. I have been told that my example of balancing my roles as mother and professor helped. For example, when we interviewed a female candidate the week after my husband and I adopted Skye, I brought her to the candidate lunch in the department. I worried a tad about how it might look to this female interviewee, assuming that she was childless. After the interview, we learned that my comfort in bringing my daughter was seen as positive to the interviewee who, unbeknownst to us, had a 5-year- old daughter! I was proof to her of a family-friendly environment. We have since hired five women professors, four of whom have children, more than doubling the number of women on our departmental faculty. In fact, when in recruiting sessions and preliminary interviews at convention job fairs, we now pitch our department and university as a place where one can achieve balance and have a life outside of work. I have also enjoyed promotions and many marvelous opportunities. Although comments and responses to my juggling act have sometimes irked me, one supervisory colleague once remarked about me that “when she serves, she leads” and I have always been treated fairly in the ways that mattered most to me. For example, I was promoted to spearhead and then coordinate a new undergraduate major in my department (when I adopted our daughter) and then to design and direct our new graduate program (when we gave birth to our fourth child). In other words, as my family grew and flourished at home, so did my career at the university. This year, I was fortunate enough to be selected as the University’s Outstanding Professor of the Year, which is awarded to a faculty member who best exemplifies excellence in teaching, research, service, and leadership. Most recently, I was promoted to full professor and named the next department chair. Additionally, numerous administrators, both male and female, have encouraged me to pursue higher levels of administration in the upcoming few years.
What lessons can this citation-free personal narrative offer? First, academic workplaces are as complicated as the people who work in them. Some colleagues will be receptive to the demands of parenthood and offer terrifie support, others will not (irrespective of gender). second, I have found that it’s important to learn the culture of the organization and respect its norms even while changing some of those norms gently and gradually along the way. The sheer presence of women in the workplace changes the norms, rules, and precedents for future employees. My workplace is notably different now than eleven years ago, as women professors actively seek out each other for mentoring and guidance as we balance the demands of our complicated lives. Third, as conventional wisdom and experiences have dictated over the last half century, expectations are higher for women in the workplace, which means that proving oneself early and maintaining excellence is important. I believe that I have been afforded opportunities, promotions, and flexibility because my supervisors could count on me to be timely and excellent. Fourth, while I would have liked to learn in a different way, adversity is an outstanding teacher for those willing to learn and find the lessons in pain. Though I’ve always considered myself strong and capable, growth through loss and pain has increased my sense of who I am and what I can handle. And lastly, for me, the adage “you can’t have it all at once” is false. For those willing to deny themselves an active social life, an impressive exercise regimen, a clean house, the image or expectation of perfection, and anything resembling abundant free time, you can. I may define “it all” differently than others, but I have found the last eleven years to be the most satisfying, enjoyable, rewarding, and joyful of my entire life.
While the academy could certainly be more responsive and receptive to the norms, issues, and demands of parenthood, this workaholic trouper has pressed on, proven herself to her colleagues professionally and established strong relationships with them personally, reaping the rewards of doing so. I have found a powerful synergy in the support and opportunities my university has offered me while giving it as much of myself as humanly or, I should say, motherly possible. More importantly, I am not an “other” in their minds. Being an active mother and a capable woman is mainstream, not marginalized, at my university. What an odyssey it has been-tenure, five promotions, four children, and a funeral-all in just eleven years.
Cady Short-Thompson
Northern Kentucky University
Cady Short-Thompson, PhD, is a Professor of Communication and Chair at Northern Kentucky University. Special thanks to my professional and personal families for supporting, encouraging, and offering special care to me over the years. In particular, I thank my colleagues Russ Proctor, Steve Boyd, and Steve Weiss. I especially thank my egalitarian spouse Steve Thompson and our fabulous children, Libby, Alex, Skye, and Seth for making all of the juggling and running exceedingly worthwhile.
Copyright Organization for Research on Women and Communication Summer 2008
(c) 2008 Women’s Studies in Communication. Provided by ProQuest LLC. All rights Reserved.
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