Triptych of Becoming: Scholar, Mother, Self

Melanie Doyle, PhD Candidate

Faculty of Education, Memorial University of Newfoundland

“Two baby bottles” by Jaye Haych on Unsplash

Shhh… Be quiet, sweetie.

I arrive at class late and take one of the last remaining seats, trying to push the morning out of my mind — the baby woke three times last night, his sister didn’t want to go to daycare, and then there was traffic. I tell myself, I’m here. I made it. When leaving home, most people do a quick “wallet, keys, phone” dance to ensure their essential belongings are in place. Discreetly from my seat, I do my own new version of this ritual: pads, shoulders, shapewear. My breast pads are where they should be; my shoulders are mostly free of spit up; and my recently sliced open abdomen is tucked away tightly —

Is it time to stop swaddling the baby? I don’t think he’s close to rolling. Maybe I should pick up one of those transitional swaddles. Should he be rolling already?

I remind myself, I’m here. I made it.

I have not yet told anyone that I am newly postpartum, that I left my eight-week-old son for the first time today in order to be here. As I think of him at home, I am overwhelmed by emotion and my body’s uncontrollable, hormonal reaction nearly betrays me. I know I must disclose this part of my identity; being a mother defines me on a near cellular level, and this title will impact everything I do as a doctoral student. But as I sit in this classroom of my peers, I cannot help but wonder, “What will they think of me once they know?”

She won’t finish the program. Her priorities are wrong. She must be a bad mom.

While smiling at my new classmates, I pan the room in search of similar markers to those I just ensured were hidden on my own person. Are there other tired eyes or toddler-scribbled notebooks? Is there an obvious comrade with whom I could share my secret, who would say, “I understand why you haven’t said anything?” That’s the thing about this secret: although I suspect I may benefit from keeping it hidden a while longer, there is part of me that yearns to scream it loudly for everyone to hear. I am a mom. And I am here.

Aww, who’s that in the mirror? Is that you?

The minutes on my phone pass quickly and my hand begins to cramp as I squeeze the lever more frequently. Squelch, squelch, squelch. Drip, drip, drip. My classmates sit in the room down the hall. We have a fifteen-minute break during, but I get the impression that I’m the only student who leaves the room. While I’m grateful for this time, I have come to dread it. Sure, it helps keep my breasts empty, my son fed, and my freezer stocked, but I can’t help but wonder what I’m missing. Drip, drip, drip. What’s being said while I’m out of the room? Are my classmates asking questions with answers from which I could benefit? Has everyone put it together, my reason for stepping out —

Have I switched sides yet? I think so. It feels like it. Should I switch again? I meant to meet with the lactation consultant. When’s the next support group?

Are the four ounces I’ll collect worth missing out on the opportunity to build the social support on which my success and perseverance in the program may depend? Squelch, squelch. Drip, drip.

I duck into the restroom to rinse my pump parts, and over the sink I study the face staring back at me. My hair is untidy and my eyes are tired. In them I see a flicker of fear. Fear for what I may be missing out on, and fear that I will become completely consumed by my maternal role. As I walk back to class, bottled milk sloshing around in my cooler bag, I remind myself to plant seeds of my other identities everywhere I go, for I want my peers to ask about my research interests as well as my children. I must not become the student who only chats about diaper cream, or the scholar who always writes about motherhood. Slish, slosh. Slish, slosh.

Wow! Look how strong you are

I sit at my kitchen table with my MacBook and many articles in front of me. I had to give up my office before my second child was born; he sleeps in the room now, somewhat fitfully, as I watch on the baby monitor. My daughter sits next to me at the table, pounding on the keys of an old, black laptop — she insists on “helping,” and I figure she can do less damage with the forgotten electronic than with the highlighters. Surrounding us on the table is a visual cacophony leftover from a hectic weekend: last night’s supper dishes, boxes of Huggies yet to be put away, and a diaper bag in need of replenishing. Other items include sunscreen, the baby monitor, something called a snot sucker, glue sticks, a form to be signed for swimming lessons –

Did we pay for swimming lessons yet? When do they start? Next week. That should work. How much milk will the baby need while I’m gone? I should be pumping more.

My toddler and I work for 20 minutes until I can no longer pretend that the baby is sleeping. My husband will be home soon to take our daughter to the playground so I can catch up on reading. In their absence, I will strap the baby to my chest, and holding a clipboard with my assigned articles, we will walk. I will pace our small home as I now do daily, circling my old office, the toddler’s bedroom, rounding back toward the living room, all while ignoring heaping laundry hampers and tumbleweeds of pet hair. With any luck, the baby will drift off, and I will have an hour, the time marked only by tiny baby sighs and the scratching of my pen. Scratch, scratch, scritch, scratch. This is my doctoral journey.

Melanie Doyle is a PhD candidate at Memorial University of Newfoundland where she also teaches writing and works as an Educational Developer. Her research explores how the work and labour of writing instruction is mediated by changing institutional landscapes.

Edited by the JCACS Musings Editorial Team: Nicholas Rickards, Alexandra Olsvik, Colin Kutchyera, Sarah Green, & Chantelle Caissie for the special issue “Oh, The Humanity!”.