My Life Before Motherhood

People say that your history sets the path for your future. Mine certainly did for me.

Working became a way to keep myself busy and move my focus away from the things that haunted my daily life. Working kept me safe.

Although my childhood certainly had its moments of sorrow, it also provided something wonderful: a strong work ethic and a confidence in my abilities. I learned that if I worked at something hard enough, I could accomplish whatever goals I set. I could take care of myself, and that was empowering.

It was natural, then, that I would work my way through college at the University of Iowa. I waitressed, worked in a daycare (cementing my love for children), and worked in a library returning books to the shelves. I tried lots of jobs--anything to pay tuition, help out with the care of my sister, and provide support to my father who, in the absence of my mother, had now assumed the role of sole parent.

In my third year of college, I met Scott. He lived down the hall, and we became good friends. Scott was a great guy--stable, smart, and conservative--everything I was not used to. We made the perfect couple.

We had a lovely wedding when I was 23, and started a happy life. We both worked and found jobs we enjoyed. We bought a little townhouse, kept sound finances, and enjoyed a fairly uncomplicated life.

I excelled at what I was doing. I worked longer and harder than anyone I knew--man or woman. At age 27, I was promoted to regional sales manager of my office, making me the youngest member of management for this Fortune 500 company and in charge of one of the largest regions. I stayed with the same company and continued my career development in a wide variety of roles, always working long hours and focusing on accomplishing more than I had before. At the age of 30, I was promoted again, this time to general manager, a position held by only a handful of females in the company that boasted sales of over $13 billion annually. To hold this position in a sea of middle-aged men struck me as quite an achievement. I had accomplished quite a bit through hard work and dedication, and I was proud.

And then, at the age of 31, I became pregnant. We were thrilled! We picked a room in our house to be the baby's room. We painted it a pale pink and bought a crib. I read baby books, I Googled countless what-if scenarios, and we argued happily over names. We were ready.

Life would continue as always while at the same time becoming infinitely more exciting: I would return to work and I would now be a mother.

How hard could it be? Megan was born in August of that year. She was the most beautiful child I had ever seen. She was chubby, no hair to speak of, and smelled wonderful (you know that amazing little infant smell). I felt an immediate bond with her that I had never imagined was possible. I was surprised, even shocked, by it. I loved it.