Three weeks ago I decided to embark upon an ambitious journey, at the end of which I would be radically transformed into the type of person I had previously only marveled at from a distance in a detached, good-for-you sort of way, but had come to revere in more recent months – the efficient early riser.The process has been hellish, but I’ve come to realize that my body’s resistance to this transformation is as much physical as it is psychological.
I am no early bird. I’ve always placed a very high value on my sleep. In the recent past, this has meant waking up as late as possible to make it to work on time. As a student, this meant I got things done late at night, or in the wee hours of the morning when the rest of the world was fast asleep. As early as twelve years old I remember pulling all-nighters to study (more like cram) for my exams with incredible efficiency. The hardest part was always getting started as everyone else was getting into bed. One by one my siblings would turn their lights out, leaving me in an increasingly silent house, upon which total darkness had descended, but for the light from lamp where I sat immersed in my studies. I relished these moments. I never drank coffee or used any other stimulants. And I never went to bed until I had completed my assignment or felt I was sufficiently prepared for my exam. In this late night solitude I felt most fulfilled.
As a result, this recent transformation into an early bird has been tantamount to torture – a deprivation of some of the things that matter to me most. And though seemingly self-imposed, it is not. It has been dictated by my circumstances and recently acquired status of “stay-at-home-mom”. There are only so many things one can do in a day, and with the hours in my day now predominantly devoted to domestic preoccupations and child care, I am left little time for myself. And so, I have begun this battle against my biological clock, in a last ditch effort to reclaim what is mine – the time to pursue my personal interests and the freedom not to succumb to a life defined by domestic demands.
As I begin preparing for our departure from Benin and my imminent return to the professional world, I’ve realized that giving into the demands of domesticity means giving up my ambitions, or at least putting them on the back burner. Every minute spent managing our household is a minute not spent reading, writing, job searching, interview prepping. Minutes not spent doing the things that leave me feeling fulfilled. Minutes not spent doing things that bring me happiness.
I recently came across an opinion piece in the New York Times, which slapped a whopping 10.9 trillion USD value on the unpaid work women around the world carried out in the home in 2019. It is a staggering figure that highlights the economic value of the work many women perform at home everyday without compensation. Work that is carried out often without acknowledgement, or so much as a “thank you”. But this figure still falls woefully short – its focus on “value” in mainly monetary terms does not capture the sense of fulfillment that is obtained from the freedom to pursue personal and professional interests that dare to deviate from restrictive patriarchal prescriptions.
In 2019, an article written by Christine La Garde, (former Managing Director of the International Monetary Fund) similarly focused on the potential economic gains that could come from getting women out of the home and into the workforce, stating,
“Because women bring new skills to the workplace, the productivity and growth gains from adding women to the labor force (by reducing barriers to women’s participation in the labor force) are larger than previously thought. Indeed ….. closing the gender gap could increase GDP by an average of 35 percent.”
In ascribing a monetary value to women’s contributions in the workplace and in the home, these two articles demonstrate how much is lost when we are confined to roles as homemakers and house managers. But there are many things that matter more than money.
My value as a human being and a woman is not determined by my ability to to be an efficient housekeeper and nurturing caregiver, as much as it is not defined by my capacity to generate wealth. My happiness and and my self worth – derived in no small part through the freedom to pursue my personal goals without restriction – can never be quantified. They have no price tag, but they are just as important if not more than my potential contribution to gross domestic product.
My natural night-owl disposition, brought me much gratification as student, allowed me to obtain an advanced degree and helped me tremendously during my initial foray into the work world. But it started falling out of favor after I fell for a partner who was an early riser with a strict (Swiss) work ethic, who basically barred any professional activity from taking place at home. So I adapted and tried to keep work at work, during “regular working hours”, lest I be scowled at or reprimanded at home.
When I became a mother another tiny but even more powerful force began dictating my waking and working hours. My constitution remained unchanged. But dutifully, I complied. During the first few months of motherhood I’d wake up begrudgingly each morning tending to my daughter in a semi-conscious but surprisingly efficient state.
When we moved to Benin, the circumstances here made it so that most of my professional and personal pursuits have had to take place at home. It also means that the time I set aside for myself feel fragmented, punctuated by various domestic preoccupations. I am pulled in this way and that, to tend to a litany of tasks that distract and leave me feeling unproductive.
Often, as I work, my four year old toddler tugs at me, climbs on me, pokes at me, demanding with an every increasing urgency and irritation “Mommy look”. She does not understand boundaries, or perhaps she simply refuses to. A closed door is never an obstacle but an invitation to employ even more distracting devices to get my attention. Defiantly, as if to prove that I am still in possession of the time I have carved out for myself, I reply “in a minute, I’m working”. But ultimately I give in almost immediately, attempting to engage her, all the while thinking of the time being lost and the work that is not being done.
I’ve grown tried of existing in a constant state of feeling unproductive and unfulfilled, tired of the domestic distractions, tired of being a distracted parent – trying to do everything but accomplishing nothing at all.
And so, this is why, almost paradoxically, I’ve come to believe that my metamorphosis into the dutiful, early-rising mother that does it all – a role I have heretofore resisted – will be my ultimate salvation. If I succeed, at least I’ll have a few more hours in the day for myself. Or perhaps it is merely wishful thinking and I have simply succumbed to forces that just want to see me attain a greater level of efficiency in pleasing partner, raising child and running a well functioning home.
