When I returned to work after the birth of my second child in 1989, the kindly and nurturing secretary for a senior attorney pulled me aside. She welcomed me back with a warm hug, and then gazed into my face, searching for both the answer to a question and the words with which to ask it. “Laurin, congratulations, I am so happy for you. But are you sure that it is, uhm, right that you are here?” She shook her head with regret; whether it was because she had the temerity to ask the question or in disapproval of me, I could not ascertain.
The partners, all but one of whom were male, gave me a cordial but somewhat distant reception as though I were a fragile Christmas tree ornament that would shatter if I stayed late to write a legal brief. One of the junior managers explained why: I was the first female attorney in the company’s decades-long history that had returned after having a baby, and they did not know what to do with me.
After the birth of my third son in 1992, my professional life was even more complex. The timing of having a baby was problematic; I knew that. I was a sixth-year associate, which meant that in several months, under the unwritten code of large Seattle law firms, I would be considered for partnership. In those days, the stakes were high; it was an “up or out” environment, which meant that if you did not make partner on schedule, your career with the firm was essentially over. Fortunately, notwithstanding the occasional quips from men about getting my tubes tied, I got a thumbs up.
In hindsight, I am annoyed by how differently society viewed ambitious men and women – those who wanted both a career and a robust family life. In my memory, new fathers were gifted with bottles of scotch and solid back slaps regardless of whether it was their first child or their fifth. A devoted family man was considered a marketing asset, and jokes abounded about giving him a raise because he had to start another college fund or changing from man-to-man to zone defense at home. Female attorneys with children at my firm were practically non-existent. As a result, I understood that my maternal life should be placed on hold as soon as I logged onto my computer each day. It was easier to blend in with office banter if I pretended that my real life was not happily and chaotically subsumed by potty training, finger paint productions, and Lego creations.
People often view professional women who pursue careers for reasons of ambition and not necessity with suspicion. Committed male employees are rarely accused of lacking parental devotion; in fact, fathers who work long hours to support their family are revered. Women have told me that I should not have had children; that choosing an absorbing career necessarily meant that I was neglecting my offspring. The fact that I worked because I felt the inexplicable and uncontrollable pull of achievement was my dirty little secret. I hid my need for success like a bottle of gin behind boxes of laundry detergent in a rarely used cupboard.
Looking back, I am filled with gratitude. I had devoted caregivers that loved my kids and who assured me that they were confident, bright, and on-track. My husband never questioned my occupational ethic, and he made employment sacrifices for the good of the family. My adult offspring are seemingly undamaged by early maternal neglect, and, though they lack a valid and reliable yardstick, they regularly assert that I am the world’s greatest mother.
I wish that I had brought the same zealous and boundless advocacy to my maternity leave negotiations that I did on behalf of my clients. If I had, my employers would have quickly capitulated and yielded to my terms.
Well, except maybe my demand that the managing partner’s office be converted to a day care center.