Jai Ma and not Ma Bell, or, learning to Skype from India June 22, 2008

Namaste from India! I’m a little bit behind on my blog posts but I have been keeping my tweets relatively up to date. 

You can say “efficient” and “airport” in the same sentence

I arrived in Hyderabad around 11p.m. Friday night.  This is my fifth trip here (which frankly, amazes me.)  For years, I’ve been flying into the rickety and dingy Rajiv Ghandi International Airport, which has recently been replaced with the bright, shiny, brand-new Rajiv Ghandi International Airport nowhere near the former one.  Transfers and transactions of any type usually take an indeterminate period of time in India, but I got through customs within five minutes, all the while marveling at the clean expanses of white walls, white and grey-flecked marble and recessed lighting.  When I got to the baggage carousel, the luggage was already spilling onto the conveyor belt.  That is a benchmark Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport can only dream of replicating. 

It wasn’t anything like what I experienced when I happened to arrive at the same time as several planeloads of pilgrims returning from the Hajj.  That was both a circus and cultural serendipity: the hordes of weary Muslims, jumbled cargo piling up everywhere (often boxes or burlap sacks secured with twine and duct tape) and the maw of family waiting outside to welcome them with flower garlands and gifts. 

This time, the airport was all so clean, orderly and quiet, I was actually kind of let down. 

Indulgences and diversions

First thing on Saturday morning, after enjoying a tasty masala omelette (onions, tomatoes and hot chillies – not for the faint of heart) I headed straight for the hotel spa and had some foot reflexology done.  Our bodies are not meant to travel through space and across multiple time zones at 500 mph.  I have learned that it is a necessity to do things that are beneficial to helping your body get settled once back on the ground.  Lots of water, lots of daylight and lots of bodywork.  (Chilies are optional.)

In the afternoon, I visited Golconda Fort with my co-workers.  Golconda Fort is amazing, just breathtaking in its size and overall preservation.  It also has terrific views of Hyderabad.  The men who were vying to be our paid guides were indignant that I didn’t want to hire them.  “Well, madam, how are you going to know where to go?”  They were disappointed and somewhat suspicious when I said I’d been there before.

Check out my photostream on Flickr on this page – I’ve posted a bunch of photos from the fort, including a spectacular and rather fearsome-looking shot of the goddess Kali Ma (Mother Kali) painted on a large boulder at a shrine located near the top.  Those things that are often terrifying in one way can also be seen as liberating in another.

For me, the best part about these excursions are the Indian families who ask you to be in their family pictures.  They walk up, shyly, holding their camera and before you know it, you’re posing with a bunch of people you’ll never see again – but you’re in their family album for life.  I have to wonder at this point how many families in Hyderabad and Delhi have my grinning face in their collection of “snaps.”  It’s like being a very, very, very minor celebrity. 

Ma Bell is not the ill communication…but Skype is

Somehow the international calling feature on my cell phone was never activated, and I’ve had difficulty getting hold of AT&T to get it switched on.  Making a landline call in India is like putting a wastepaper basket in the middle of a dark room, standing in one corner of that dark room with your dominant hand tied behind our back and trying to toss a small rubber ball into said basket.  That’s why everyone here has cell phones. 

Apparently, AT&T customer service doesn’t answer emails either.  (I know, I know.  They’re a phone company.)  But that’s OK.  In another year or so, they’ll be known as something else with the same lousy customer service and life will go on.  You can change your name, but that doesn’t mean you can just change what you are.  I say this with the authority of someone who is on their fourth last name. 

Anyway, thanks to my co-worker, I have discovered Skype.  I used earlier this evening and was really pleased at the quality.  I don’t have a webcam on my computer, so they couldn’t see me (jet lagged and haggard) but I got to see my daughter toddling around, laughing, babbling, getting into things, squirming on Daddy’s lap and blowing kisses to me.  I also got to see my dog’s tail and ears bobbing as she skittered through the room (happy birthday, Jazz!)  My husband and I have sent some emails back and forth for the past day, but it was so unsatisfying.  He’s not chatty on email like I am.  Skype gave me the next best thing to actually being at home – and we talked for an HOUR for free! 

 

 

There is no one-size-fits-all June 16, 2008

I understand the issues in the New York Times article quite well.  It’s why I was left feeling conflicted.  My husband Seth and I have been working out our own parental balancing act since our daughter Ahleia was born last year.  Seth also has a son from a previous marriage and had very intentionally chosen to be actively involved in River’s daily life and upbringing through his own version of equally-shared parenting with his ex-wife.  Yet, things shifted a bit more radically once Ahleia was born.

My mothering began with fathering

They actually began shifting within 24 hours of Ahleia’s birth.  I had a massive post-partum hemmorhage and am fortunate to be here, writing about it now.  I was in the hospital for about a week after she was born, and for a while could not do much other than hold her from time to time.  For the first two weeks of her life, I did not change a single diaper.  It was her father who took care of her – changed her diapers, soothed her and helped feed her.  All while simultaneously tending to me, chasing down the lactation consultants and updating our families on my progress.  Once I was home, my friend Sharon, my mother and mother-in-law all spent time helping out until I could take care of Ahleia without assistance.

But in the beginning, Seth did it all. 

Yay for FWA!

I took four months of maternity leave and prior to my return, my manager called me to discuss how we would restructure my work schedule.  I was easily able to negotiate a four day full-time work week.  I go into the office three days and work from home one day per week.  Seth retained his normal five day schedule.  No one at his job asked him if he wanted to pursue a flexible-work arrangement.  I’m sure it never even occurred to them. 

Most companies just don’t get that productivity and results do not always result from five days in the office right under the boss’s nose.  I’ve also been telecommuting at least part of the work week for the past 8 years, as part of a virtual team based in several offices in the U.S. and India.

However, the article tends to give corporate America a bad rap.  Granted, many companies need to get a reality check, but don’t assume you will always have to battle it out with The Man in order to have quality time with your family.  I think a lot of it has to do with the size of the company you work for, their acceptance of diversity and how clued in management is about how technology can make people work smarter and more efficiently. 

Flex time = free time, right?

Ironically, there is a lingering perception that I have more flexibility in my schedule because of my “flexible work arrangement.”  There was an interesting point mentioned in the article – that women’s jobs are always perceived as being more flexible than men’s, regardless of their job title or responsibilities.  That perception was challenged recently when our nanny was bed-ridden after a nasty case of gastroenteritis and I could not just take two days off to watch Ahleia.  Ultimately, Seth and I had to find ways to modify our schedules so that one of us could watch her while the other one worked.  I won’t say it went smoothly or easily, but we got through it.  

Tie one on (the apron, that is)

I travel for my job.  My husband does not.  Sometimes the travel is infrequent, but during certain times of the year, I may be on a plane two or three times a month.  When I do go out of town, he takes on the responsibility of caring for two children, in addition to his full-time job and all of the normal household tasks.  It’s like being a temporary single parent, but he doesn’t complain and he actively supports my career. 

On Thursday, I’m leaving for India for 9 days, which is a long time to be away from my family.  It’s also a long time for him to assume total responsibility for the kids, the house, the dog…everything.  I’m sure he’ll return the favor one day. 

Happy Father’s Day!

Two to Tango: The Pitfalls of “Equal” Parenting June 14, 2008

I just got through reading the New York Times Magazine article, “When Mom and Dad Share it All” and although I was initially enthusiastic, as I read more I felt increasingly convinced that on some levels, the “equal parenting” model felt contrived, a kind of new social construction. 

The family tableau

One of the couples interviewed for the story, Marc and Amy Vachon, seemed to have figured out (with considerable effort on their part) an “equal-parenting” model and are evangelists for the ESP (equally-shared parenting) lifestyle.  However, the article’s lead in photo disturbed me. 

It had obviously been digitally altered to give it that odd, flat 70’s-era brownish duotone.  The family of 4 are likewise engaged in some rather disjointed activities.  The mom, Amy, is seated at the upright piano (looking eerily like my junior high school chorus teacher) while her daughter is very intently playing violin.  Her son is happily whacking on the tambourine, oblivious to the “serious” music his mother and sister are making.  But the most telling detail?  Just to the left, partially obscured by the frame, is the dad, folding laundry. 

I’m not knocking the Vachons’ intentions, which are admirable, but the photo looks almost as staged as the “Domestic Bliss” photo session Brangelina did for W magazine, perpetuating the prevailing American myth of the ideal family structure.   

Dystopia, or, this is how it really is

The composition is a visual commentary on the inherent emptiness of the obligation to fulfill roles, and that establishing “fairness” can also create unintended effects.  It struck me that Marc Vachon is relegated to the sidelines, much as dads have usually been - even though he’s set up as the exemplar of the involved dad/partner and  counterpoint to the statistics bearing witness to how women primarily assume the bulk of the mundane household chores.  Instead, it’s Amy Vachon, with her perfect posture, nodding her head in time with the music, that functions as the picture’s subject.  

As a feminist, I guess I’m supposed to feel a voyeuristic tingle of excitement: Amy doesn’t have to wash those tighty-whities if she doesn’t want to!  And yet, why do I keep feeling like this insistence on absolute equality comes with a price somewhere in the deepest recesses of our emotional existence?  One thing that my husband points out to me from time to time, which is as instructive as it is troubling, is that even though he may take on more responsibility for chores around the house or caring for our daughter, I don’t necessarily seem any less tired or stressed out than I was before – even though I do appreciate his involvement. So maybe parents are really battling something bigger than who does the dishes or puts the baby down for sleep at night.

We are not Devo (or Brangelina, for that matter)

The article itemizes how the Vachons negotiated household chores, daycare roles and work schedules and eventually achieved an enviable level of partnership parity, but as the saying goes, a picture tells a thousand words.  Just as the Brangelina spread was attempting to mythologize a family tableau that never actually existed for most people, the Vachon family tableau doesn’t exist for most families either. 

What I think what struck me the most in that photo was that no one, except maybe the son, looked like they were having a good time at all.