When my children were in preschool, parents often commented at school events that they did not know I worked or was a physician. I never knew how to handle that double-edged sword. Ostensibly a compliment, their surprise at a working parent’s presence at school felt like an insult; their shock over my medical life cast doubt on my professionalism. I smiled benignly and changed the subject.
For years, I worked in the office on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday and was home on Tuesday and Thursday. On those days, I was like all the other mothers, except for the beeper and the willingness to look at kids’ rashes. I sat at my children’s swimming lessons, ate lunch in the preschool lobby on the way to dance class, and drove endless carpools. On the other three days, I seemed like any doctor. I was out of the house before the kids woke up and never home before bedtime on Mondays.
The other mothers, most of whom did not work, welcomed me by arranging classes when I could attend—though I never knew if this was a desire to spend time with me or because they did not feel comfortable spending the afternoon with my childcare providers. I code-switched back and forth with the same apparent effortlessness of my bilingual children: two wardrobes, two vocabularies, two worlds.
Although accepted, I always felt judged by the motherworld. If they said, “I don’t know how you do it,” I heard, “I would never make your choices.” My husband accused me of being hypersensitive to these comments until I pointed out that no one ever asked him how he did it. I felt guilty admitting that I never thought about my children when I was at work. Knowing my kids were safe and well cared for, I gave all my attention to my patients. I became reasonably fluent in the moirés of the mothers, but I totally never lost my accent; I was always more comfortable, less of an imposter, in the world of medicine.
As my children’s school days lengthened, I moved to four clinical days a week, and the gap between my two worlds widened. I still picked up my kids three afternoons a week, but those afternoons of driving to activities or helping with homework did not connect me to other parents. My only non-clinical day often disappeared between meetings and dentist appointments—I was unavailable for coffee or lunch. With less time in-country, my skills grew rusty. I was happy to sit alone at dance rehearsals, reading or making my grocery list, instead of listening to conversations about teachers and students I did not know. Time was my limiting reagent; I chose to spend it at work and with my children rather than keeping up my citizenship in the land of mothers.
The expanding fissure between me and the other mothers became a chasm during the COVID-19 pandemic. They were home with their families all day, rhapsodizing romantically about the joys of eating three daily meals with spouses and teenagers. I was working a q3 schedule (one off, one in-person, one virtual), which meant I never knew what day it was. They carefully disinfected their bananas after grocery shopping, and I watched YouTube videos on safely storing and reusing N-95 masks.
My immersion in the world of medicine and my family overwrote my ability to converse with civilian parents—the same way that living in a Spanish-speaking household erased my once-fluent French. I could still understand what people were saying but struggled to communicate. I lost the ability to chat about trivia, worry about a child’s grades, or care about my aging skin. As the pandemic waned, I went to dinners with the other mothers but sometimes let the conversation roll over me—the way I do when my husband’s family gossips in very rapid Spanish about people I have never met. My in-town circle narrowed to a few doctor-mother-friends who still spoke and understood my dialect.
I maintained a group of people, my B.C.E (before children era) friends who spoke my language. Ten women: friends from growing up, former roommates, a residency companion, the co-opted wife of a college friend, and the only evidence-based parent from my 2001 new mom’s support group. These women, who had known me for decades, formed their opinions about me when I was neither a mother nor an experienced doctor. When life is hard (and the balance of medicine and parenting is often hard), I can call them crying from my self-imposed time-out in the supermarket parking lot. They listen and advise without—whether they work outside the home or not—blaming my devotion to my job for my parenting failures. Like a language learned in early childhood, these relationships have consolidated in ways experience cannot erase.
After many years of traveling between the motherworld and medicine, I have concluded that it is impossible to be equally comfortable in two countries. Dual citizens are always subject to the inherent tension of belonging in two worlds, each of which historically demanded undivided loyalty and complete attention. Even when we are fluent in both languages and cultures, one will inevitably exert a strong pull.
In the land of full-time parents, I am now a tourist. I will continue to visit for graduations, weddings, holidays, and dinners. Like an emigrant long gone from her country, I will dust off appropriate clothing and enjoy my trip. The locals will never be sure what to make of me—my accent is decent, but my grammar and cadence are imperfect. When I return to my family and patients, I will breathe a sigh of relief at being home—even if it is tinged with nostalgic regret for the place I no longer, and perhaps never, fully belonged.
Eleanor Menzin is a pediatrician.
