While I was pregnant (and even before), I read a lot about the experiences of pregnant working women and, in particular, how they handled the Big Question: whether to continue working, either inside or outside the home, after the baby was born, and if so, in what capacity. Following maternity leave–six weeks? sixteen weeks? a whole year? however long it takes to pull your pants up and log in to your email account?–what were the experiences of women who went back to work full-time immediately, eased back into 40-hour weeks gradually, switched to part-time permanently, switched careers entirely, started working from home exclusively, or became stay-at-home moms, either putting their jobs on hold temporarily or giving them up completely? An analyst by nature, I knew that if a “right” answer was out there, I’d be able to find it, by golly.
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My son turned one on Monday (HOW?!), and over the weekend we threw him a birthday party that, against all the advice in the world, was completely out of proportion to anything a kid his age should be made to tolerate: thirty-plus guests (mostly adults) invading his house for four hours in the middle of the day, talking loudly over rock-and-roll music and pinching his cheeks whenever he toddled within pinching radius. The poor thing weathered the celebration and adoration like a champ, though, and instead of fussing his way to an early exit, he partied hardy to an acceptable naptime of 4:30, after all the guests had gone, no harm done.

The event was a success by all accounts, but the one thing that had me wringing my hands after it was over was the pile of gifts–nice gifts, too nice–that our friends had brought for a kid who, let’s face it, barely knows the difference between a brand new toy and one we’ve just hidden from him in the closet for a few months (or worse, a toy that is really just a paper grocery sack with HANDLES OMG). I just felt a little awkward sitting there opening gift after gift in front of a rapt audience while also trying to keep the star of the show focused on the task at hand when he’d clearly rather be pinching his fingers in the mail slot again and again.

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Last year, I pretty much copped out on Christmas. Okay, maybe I didn’t cop out so much as I was given a pass considering I was ten months pregnant, plump as a honeybaked ham, and wound six ways to Sunday about giving birth during the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.™ I waddled to what holiday parties I could (contributing to the potluck whatever I hadn’t eaten on the drive over), but everything else–gifts, decorations, yuletide cheer–were mere ghosts of my usual seasonal spirit. (Think caroling in the shower and sporting socks with jingle bells.)
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