After my daughter was born, I sat in a broom closet with my breast pump and my PalmPilot (this was 2003) in order to make the most out of those minutes so I could leave on time to get to the day care. My daughter is almost in middle school now, but I still can't really joke about that. My designated space felt undignified and I found it embarrassing; even more so than using a breast pump already feels. It is ironic because my colleagues were caring and supportive of me as a new mother and would have gone out of their way to find a more suitable space for me, had they known. But none of them were in my situation, and, if they were (or had been), I never knew. In all likelihood, they probably didn’t even notice that I quietly slipped away twice a day.
Working my way through the engineering ranks in the nuclear industry, I’ve struggled with how to balance it all. How am I supposed to be at work at 6 a.m. (that's oh-six-hundred in nuclear speak, and oh-dark-thirty in my lingo) when I got home late enough the night before that my children were already in bed? How am I supposed to be on call and ready to respond to an unexpected equipment issue, when I also am expected to drive a carpool shift for one kid, get to soccer practice for the other, make dinner, scrounge together craft supplies for Silly Hat Day at school, clean house/laundry/kids/cats, monitor how long my son is playing video games when he should be doing homework, get the kids in bed at a reasonable time, AND find time to remind my husband that he has a wife, not a roommate? My male counterparts sympathized but also commented that they were glad that their wives took care of those things. There were many times that I thought to myself: Maybe I need a wife!
Early in my career, I didn't want to draw attention to my domestic obligations. I was afraid it might make me seem like I was distracted, less engaged, working half as hard, even though I knew in my heart that I was working just as hard and just as attentively as my male peers. In the past year or two, as I feel secure in my position, I have become much less hesitant. I informed my boss that I would be leaving every day at 4:45 pm. I informed my boss’s boss, and his boss as well. None of them had a concern. To my surprise, one of them even shared his own story about a time earlier in his career when he had to leave work at a regular time in order to pick up his kids from day care, even though sometimes it meant returning later in the evening to meet his responsibilities. I thought I was baring my soul, only to realize that all those years, I had been stupidly stoic.
One key to making my life work is my husband. He works full time as a professor of electrical engineering and is happier to cook or to clean the house than I am. Things are not always done perfectly, but they do get done. We eat dinner together as a family nearly every evening, but sometimes that dinner is at 9 p.m. because we attended two soccer practices and fit in a quick workout for Mom first. I have many years of adorable school photos of my kids, and in half of them they are wearing outfits they picked out themselves. (My son fearlessly selected three different kinds of plaid in order to be “dressy,” while one year my daughter chose a stylish selection of sequins, flowers, and stripes.) Over time, I realized that our particular rhythm created our family identity and instilled a sense of responsibility and character in our kids. It’s a routine we grew into, and now it fits us.
By contrast, at a nuclear power plant there are things that MUST be done perfectly. This is serious stuff, and there is no room for error. But my work is not going to fall to pieces because I choose to go home in time to drive the second shift of the choir car pool. It’s my job to know when something at work is urgent or critical and requires me to drop everything and show up. But it's not only about me. It’s also my job to make sure that there are enough safety nets in place so that the pressure on my team to perform flawlessly does not become overwhelming and unbearable.
Do you remember the next line to the song? “One of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn’t belong.” Doesn’t belong. I could have decided a long time ago that I, as a woman and a mother, do not belong in nuclear power. Instead, every morning I squeeze my soccer-mom minivan in the parking lot of my office in between the pickup trucks because I do belong in nuclear power. I do it because, as one of my friends commented when I shared a picture of the parking lot, “We need more minivans!” That's me, changing the face of nuclear power, one minivan at a time.