And so, there will be none. For I just returned from a Gordon Research Conference, where there are no published abstracts, conference proceedings, or papers. Just the sharing of research at the frontier of the field. Pretty exciting, yes? Well, I certainly thought so. Particularly since I met leaders in my field whose work is shaping how I frame my own. More than that, I interacted with scientists from all stages in their academic careers and from multiple continents. With that much diversity in thought, it was difficult not to fall in love (again) with science.
This conference was a series of contrasts for me. I walked away both ravenous and sated, vindicated and vulnerable, academic and motherly. After five days away, I still attempt to maintain the balance between these polar opposites. Science completely fascinates me, the pursuit of which has always seemed to be a single player sport. Yet my family (husband and son) continue to captivate me with their unending curiosity. I realized at this conference that these two are not at odds, my scientific community and family. Rather, they are complementary. Together, we are curious about the world. Not to find THE answer, but because the world is an exciting series of mysteries to be unlocked. And what better way to be a scientist and/or parent than to journey with others on grand investigations?
Monday, July 4, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Man Repellant
I've never been what one might call "striking". Yes, I had my Gremlin stage like most adolescents. But now I would rate myself as a strong 7. Not really a looker, but not a troll either. So imagine my surprise this weekend while away at a conference when not one but two completely unknown men tried to chat me up. I am happy to report that in unwanted situations such as these, merely uttering the statement "I am a (female) biochemistry professor" is sufficient to repel such vermin.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Ms. Mentor Eats Humble Pie
There are far too many parallels between good parenting and good mentoring. Just like your children don't come with instruction manuals, neither do your students. And those little half-day workshops on mentoring are about as effective as those parenting seminars at the hospital. Sure, there are little kernels you tuck away for later use, but you never know what does (or in most cases does NOT) work until you have one of your own.
So it seems a bit more than coincidental that I would get my first born and my first graduate students at about the same time. All the faster to grey my hair, I guess. Or to assume a more positive outlook, double the lessons I learn each day. Most recently, I invited a prospective graduate student to visit campus. Driven, intelligent, and personable, she would have been the golden child in my lab. So imagine my excitement when, as I put her on the plane, she talked about the next steps in submitting her application to my program. For the following week, my head was in the clouds, designing the next set of experiments that would catapult my research from ho-hum to "check out that lab in the MidWest!" Yes, I know, a little far-fetched, but that's how a good student will make you feel when you are pre-tenure!!
Exactly one week later I received an email. She expressed her interest in my research, but regrettably had decided not to apply because she couldn't see how she "fit in", not just as a person but the region (flat, cold, and little diversity) was nowhere she could commit to for 5 years. I sent a warm reply, congratulating her on her maturity in making a tough decision and extending an offer of assistance should she ever need it. But as I wrote that email, I mentally tore up all those experiments I had planned. I began planning my alternate career path now that I was destined never to achieve tenure for lack of recruiting students to my lab. And I stewed. How could she be coming one day, and so quickly change her mind the next. I blamed my institution for not being prestigious enough, the region for being so cold 9 months out of the year, and anybody/thing else I could think of.
But then I ran into GossipGuy, a very gifted undergraduate student whom I have informally mentored since he took my course. He's been going through the arduous and often humbling experience of applying and interviewing for graduate school. He was glowing, if that's really possible to do outside in 10 degree weather. Just returning from UW-Madison, he was over-joyed at being accepted into a great program. Yet, as words spilled out of his mouth, I realized that it wasn't just the program, but the people and region in which he would be living. He told me that he really felt like he fit in somewhere.
As he shared with me all the great things about Madison, I mentally ate a piece of humble pie. I chose to work at my institution not just because I could do great research, but because I viewed it as a great place to live and raise a family. I felt like I "fit" here. How could I expect it to be any different for my students?
Much like my little boy teaches me at least one lesson each day, here my student had taught me something -- to think more broadly about what my students need to be successful. That some things are out of my control - and that's OK (even if disappointing). Most importantly, that becoming a good mentor is a long process but that I'm not learning on my own - my students will help me along the way.
So it seems a bit more than coincidental that I would get my first born and my first graduate students at about the same time. All the faster to grey my hair, I guess. Or to assume a more positive outlook, double the lessons I learn each day. Most recently, I invited a prospective graduate student to visit campus. Driven, intelligent, and personable, she would have been the golden child in my lab. So imagine my excitement when, as I put her on the plane, she talked about the next steps in submitting her application to my program. For the following week, my head was in the clouds, designing the next set of experiments that would catapult my research from ho-hum to "check out that lab in the MidWest!" Yes, I know, a little far-fetched, but that's how a good student will make you feel when you are pre-tenure!!
Exactly one week later I received an email. She expressed her interest in my research, but regrettably had decided not to apply because she couldn't see how she "fit in", not just as a person but the region (flat, cold, and little diversity) was nowhere she could commit to for 5 years. I sent a warm reply, congratulating her on her maturity in making a tough decision and extending an offer of assistance should she ever need it. But as I wrote that email, I mentally tore up all those experiments I had planned. I began planning my alternate career path now that I was destined never to achieve tenure for lack of recruiting students to my lab. And I stewed. How could she be coming one day, and so quickly change her mind the next. I blamed my institution for not being prestigious enough, the region for being so cold 9 months out of the year, and anybody/thing else I could think of.
But then I ran into GossipGuy, a very gifted undergraduate student whom I have informally mentored since he took my course. He's been going through the arduous and often humbling experience of applying and interviewing for graduate school. He was glowing, if that's really possible to do outside in 10 degree weather. Just returning from UW-Madison, he was over-joyed at being accepted into a great program. Yet, as words spilled out of his mouth, I realized that it wasn't just the program, but the people and region in which he would be living. He told me that he really felt like he fit in somewhere.
As he shared with me all the great things about Madison, I mentally ate a piece of humble pie. I chose to work at my institution not just because I could do great research, but because I viewed it as a great place to live and raise a family. I felt like I "fit" here. How could I expect it to be any different for my students?
Much like my little boy teaches me at least one lesson each day, here my student had taught me something -- to think more broadly about what my students need to be successful. That some things are out of my control - and that's OK (even if disappointing). Most importantly, that becoming a good mentor is a long process but that I'm not learning on my own - my students will help me along the way.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
After Those Sweet Moments
That's not to say I wasn't overjoyed, I was, but I was also a bit overwhelmed. Even with having the most amazing colleague taking over my class and no immediate pressure at work, the tenure clock never stopped ticking - loudly - in my ear.
Today, on the anniversary of my son's birth, I've learned a very valuable lesson -- how to ignore the ticking. Or like any working parent, how to balance work and family. For me that means focusing on using my work time most efficiently by prioritizing better, minimizing distraction (door closed more often), and saying no (not just to extra work assignments, but to leisurely trips to get coffee and extended lunches with colleagues). I try not to think about work when I'm home and vice versa. And most days, I'm satisfied. So, much like TucsonMama, I ask you this -- what advice would you have for new parents striving to reach a balance?
Saturday, October 16, 2010
How Can You Hate Saturday?
Just another way my life has changed since procreating. I occasionally hate Saturdays. Ordinarily, I wouldn't have minded a day like today - heading to campus around noon and helping the rest of the department greet twenty-some prospective graduate students during our annual Visitation Day. Like many in my line of work, I find it difficult to be idle. Unfortunately, this means that for far too many of us, 40 hour work weeks get stretched beyond control to 80+ hours/week. But today, I was down right resentful.
You see, I am no longer just Professor. I now have an 8-month-old who generally goes to bed between 6-7 p.m. each night, which means on a good day I might spend 1-2 hours interacting with him. Often, it's less than an hour. And this amazing little creature is growing and learning at such a pace that even if I were a stay at home mother, I would find it difficult to keep up. But I'm not stay-at-home. I'm a working mom. Not only that, but I am a working mom who researches how people learn. So I am enthralled as I watch my son make sense of the world around him, not just as his mother but as a scientist. Frankly, I'm getting rather tired of missing out.
Today, after a week of 10+ hour work days, I was expected to participate fully in departmental events. Again, normally this wouldn't really bother me too much. I enjoy the students. But at lunch, I realized something. Only half of the faculty have children, and of those, only 4 have children under the age of 8. One of those faculty members didn't show up to participate. I wish I had so much courage. But I'm pre-tenure, and I've learned that I will be evaluated based not only on my actual talents as a scientist, teacher, and colleague but on my perceived talents as well. So I grit my teeth, and participate. And I fight back tears when my husband brings my baby to the poster session just 45 minutes before his bed time so that, on one of only two days of the week reserved for family, I can spend longer than an hour with my son.
Yes, today I hated Saturday.
You see, I am no longer just Professor. I now have an 8-month-old who generally goes to bed between 6-7 p.m. each night, which means on a good day I might spend 1-2 hours interacting with him. Often, it's less than an hour. And this amazing little creature is growing and learning at such a pace that even if I were a stay at home mother, I would find it difficult to keep up. But I'm not stay-at-home. I'm a working mom. Not only that, but I am a working mom who researches how people learn. So I am enthralled as I watch my son make sense of the world around him, not just as his mother but as a scientist. Frankly, I'm getting rather tired of missing out.
Today, after a week of 10+ hour work days, I was expected to participate fully in departmental events. Again, normally this wouldn't really bother me too much. I enjoy the students. But at lunch, I realized something. Only half of the faculty have children, and of those, only 4 have children under the age of 8. One of those faculty members didn't show up to participate. I wish I had so much courage. But I'm pre-tenure, and I've learned that I will be evaluated based not only on my actual talents as a scientist, teacher, and colleague but on my perceived talents as well. So I grit my teeth, and participate. And I fight back tears when my husband brings my baby to the poster session just 45 minutes before his bed time so that, on one of only two days of the week reserved for family, I can spend longer than an hour with my son.
Yes, today I hated Saturday.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
And then, all of a sudden, it happened...
I don't know when it happened. Nor was I ready for it. But last weekend, on his four-week birthday, I looked down and suddenly noticed how big his head was. The neck that was once so thin and fragile has thickened and now supports his head unassisted more often than not. And his feet reach the very end of the pajamas that, just weeks before, swallowed his tiny body whole.
I knew, of course, that this would happen. That I would continually marvel at the passing of time as my child grows and develops through the years. But the first few weeks with Psite kept him in some sort of unnatural state of suspended animation. While we struggled to nourish him, his body changed little. And I became accustomed to his miniature features and clumsy movements. All that has changed. Each day he grows more and more into a little person.
And so begins my struggle as a "working mom". I have not yet completely returned to work, but have been back part time each day and continue to work a bit from home. Since last weekend, I've noticed that preparing to leave the house is now often accomanied by little twinges of sadness and guilt. I think to myself, "He changes so much each day, surely I will miss something important." But then the rational person in me offers a gentle reminder that over 80% of Psite's time is spent sleeping, and that can be like watching paint dry. It's enough to get me out the door and on my way to campus, but not enough to keep me from wondering like I never have before. This is just the beginning of learning how to juggle the responsibilities of motherhood in addition to being "the bread winner", a wife, and heaven forbid, my own person. Am I really cut out for this?
Each fall I barely make it through the gauntlet of teaching a large-lecture course without berating myself for lack of balance. I treat fall semester like a marathon, a long tiring race that requires all of my focus, strong will, and self-sacrifice. Certainly I will have to lower my standards in certain aspects of my life (how often does one really need to clean a bathroom anyway?), but there are some things that are -- or at least seem to be -- completely inflexible. I already find myself resenting aspects of my job that used to just be minor nuisances (impromptu faculty meetings late in the afternoon, committee work, demanding students, unfair evaluation procedures) because they threaten the most precious commodity we have -- time.
With all of that said, I have to admit that once I get to campus and turn on my computer, I remember all the things I love about my work. I adore research, enjoy sparring with colleagues as we collaborate on projects, and feel proud as my students grow as scholars. I would never make it as a full-time, stay-at-home mom -- I would certainly grow to resent my child and husband. And I will certainly grow to hate my job if I let it consume every aspect of my life as well.
So let this post be a reminder to my future self. Don't just strive for balance, advocate for it, demand it, fight for it. You (and your family, friends, colleagues, and students) will thank you for it!
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Psite's Story
I initially vetoed the idea of sharing the birth story of Psite. After all, the original intent of this blog was to share stories as they relate to academic life. Somehow the story of my first child's birth didn't seem to fit. But now, three weeks later, I've changed my mind. After all, we hear a fair bit about the many women in academia who struggle with the decision whether or not to have children and, if so, when. And we hear about difficulties in juggling motherhood and professional life. But I personally have not heard much about the transition between childless professional to academic mother.
As a scientist, I found much of my pregnancy to be frustrating from the standpoint of gathering reliable information about "what to expect." I wanted data, not anecdotal stories or gushy stories about the "wonders of motherhood." In the end, I relied on one book that did a fair job of drawing on research to present what seemed to be a realistic depiction of pregnancy, labor, and delivery. Most importantly, it refrained from using words such as "normal" to talk about the average woman's experience. Rather, it focused on what they reffered to as "uncomplicated" labor and delivery, but then described a range of different ways that it all can play out. Above all, it stressed that every case is unique.
So in the end, there I was, nearing my due date and hoping for an "uncomplicated" labor and delivery. In my mind, this meant little to no medical interventions, deep breathing and relaxation techniques in lieu of pain medication, and a vaginal birth. And with that image in my mind, I prepared for my first child. As if I were preparing for my dissertation defense, I planned (as best I could) for every curve ball that could be thrown at me. I packed my suitcase with racquet balls, relaxing music, massage oils, extra socks, an exercise ball, print-offs listing various birthing positions and the advantages/disadvantages of each, and on and on. I threw in food for my husband, swim trunks so he could be in the birthing tub with me, and spare clothes. I practiced breathing, squatting for inoridinate amounts of time, Kegel exercises, and stretching. I was ready.
Did all of this fussing pay off? Now, with more regular hormone levels and a few hours of sleep under my belt, I would say yes. I did, I had an "uncomplicated" labor and delivery. In the heat of the moment, though, I would have disagreed. I had such a narrow definition of what "uncomplicated" meant that the small variations in my labor and delivery left me feeling like a failure, that I had somehow compromised my own beliefs and wishes. As a scientist, I should have had a more liberal idea about what "normal" or "uncomplicated" meant -- that what is included in a standard deviation is quite a large range of experiences.
So I have decided to give a snapshot of Psite's birth story. Mostly because I think that many women in academia live by the same mantra by which I was raised, and continue to live -- if you work hard enough anything is possible. As academics, this often gets taken to the extreme as we deprive ourselves of sleep to finish cranking that last bit of data, writing a lecture, or editing a manuscript. And yet, as mothers, we have to let up a bit on this idea. Our children and our bodies are much less predictable, and there is a lot that is out of our control. And in the case of labor and delivery, most of these variations can be included under the blanket descriptor of "uncomplicated". Now, with over 3 weeks perspective, I can happily report "yes, we had a long but perfectly uncomplicated delivery and both mom and baby are doing fine."
30 minutes of napping later, I have much better perspective. Despite my fears, the epidural does not leave me completely numb to the birthing experience. Although it numbs most of my left side and some of my right, I can still feel the contractions increase in strength to the point where I find myself needing to focus my breathing to make it through. I am relieved, actually, to still be able to feel the contractions and to move my legs. I wanted to be an active part of delivery and to be able to push with my contractions.
The nurse checks me again shortly after noon. I am certain that given all the pain, I will be finally be dialated enough to push. But no. And our 24-hour window is closing, with the message that the on-call OB will push for a C-section if things don't change. My delivery nurse, thank goodness, will have none of that. She says that after all I have been through and how hard I have worked, she wants a vaginal birth as much as I do. And so, another intervention of sorts. During one of my contractions, she flipps the edge of my cervix up and over the baby's head and tells me to push -- hard. It worked. The head moved through enough so that we can finally start pushing with the contractions. And boy do we push. We make such progress that the OB, who had just left the building thinking she had several more hours, is called back to catch our little Psite. At 4 p.m., after more than 24 hours of labor, our lives are permanently changed. We become PARENTS.
As a scientist, I found much of my pregnancy to be frustrating from the standpoint of gathering reliable information about "what to expect." I wanted data, not anecdotal stories or gushy stories about the "wonders of motherhood." In the end, I relied on one book that did a fair job of drawing on research to present what seemed to be a realistic depiction of pregnancy, labor, and delivery. Most importantly, it refrained from using words such as "normal" to talk about the average woman's experience. Rather, it focused on what they reffered to as "uncomplicated" labor and delivery, but then described a range of different ways that it all can play out. Above all, it stressed that every case is unique.
So in the end, there I was, nearing my due date and hoping for an "uncomplicated" labor and delivery. In my mind, this meant little to no medical interventions, deep breathing and relaxation techniques in lieu of pain medication, and a vaginal birth. And with that image in my mind, I prepared for my first child. As if I were preparing for my dissertation defense, I planned (as best I could) for every curve ball that could be thrown at me. I packed my suitcase with racquet balls, relaxing music, massage oils, extra socks, an exercise ball, print-offs listing various birthing positions and the advantages/disadvantages of each, and on and on. I threw in food for my husband, swim trunks so he could be in the birthing tub with me, and spare clothes. I practiced breathing, squatting for inoridinate amounts of time, Kegel exercises, and stretching. I was ready.
Did all of this fussing pay off? Now, with more regular hormone levels and a few hours of sleep under my belt, I would say yes. I did, I had an "uncomplicated" labor and delivery. In the heat of the moment, though, I would have disagreed. I had such a narrow definition of what "uncomplicated" meant that the small variations in my labor and delivery left me feeling like a failure, that I had somehow compromised my own beliefs and wishes. As a scientist, I should have had a more liberal idea about what "normal" or "uncomplicated" meant -- that what is included in a standard deviation is quite a large range of experiences.
So I have decided to give a snapshot of Psite's birth story. Mostly because I think that many women in academia live by the same mantra by which I was raised, and continue to live -- if you work hard enough anything is possible. As academics, this often gets taken to the extreme as we deprive ourselves of sleep to finish cranking that last bit of data, writing a lecture, or editing a manuscript. And yet, as mothers, we have to let up a bit on this idea. Our children and our bodies are much less predictable, and there is a lot that is out of our control. And in the case of labor and delivery, most of these variations can be included under the blanket descriptor of "uncomplicated". Now, with over 3 weeks perspective, I can happily report "yes, we had a long but perfectly uncomplicated delivery and both mom and baby are doing fine."
Psite's Birth Story
Wednesday: OB appointment. 11 days until D-Day. Menstrual-like cramps all through previous night. Pelvic exam reveals 3 cm dilated. I kick it into gear and finish grading papers and edit a manuscript.Thursday: Crappy night sleep, up every hour. Another long night of menstrual-like cramps. Get out of bed to 6:30 am alarm. Gush of fluid falls onto floor. Call birth center, told to come in. Spend 2 hours at birth center and get sent home. Leak fluid all day and crampy. Stay home from work. Submit manuscrpit, write letters of recommendation, get Grandma's room in order. Eat homemade risotto.
Friday/Saturday: Still crampy and leaky, didn't sleep well. Initial contractions are starting, only I don't know that is what they are. Stay home from work again. Clean house, pack Ginny's overnight bag, sew duvet cover, knit Sam's fish hat. Lay down for nap, awaken at 3 p.m. with pain and soaked lounge pants. Hesitant to feel like a fool and be sent home from the birth center for a second time, hang out at home for a few more hours wondering if water has broken and if what I am feeling are really contractions or not. Quick call to the hospital results in orders to come in -- soon. Contractions anywhere between 5 minutes and 20 minutes apart (my body had not yet fallen into any discernible pattern). Make Sam eat supper and feed Ginny. 5 pm head down the street to MeritCare. Admitted by 6 pm.
We are escorted to our birthing suite where we fill out paperwork and are "debriefed", so to speak, by the nurse. She tells us that the on-call OB will probably want to start me on pitocin since I am still only 3 cm. This seems like a great time to unveil our birth plan, which basically says we want as few interventions as possible. I don't want pitocin yet; I prefer to see what my body willdo on its own. But, long story short, I labor until 6 am and never make it past 6 cm. Worried that I will be too tired to push later on, I finally allow the pitocin drip.
Although my contractions certainly strengthen and increas in frequency, I am still making slow progress. Despite the initial optimism of our (third) nurse to deliver by noon, at 10 am I am completely exhausted and still only at 8 cm. At this point I am convinced that this is a sign of a delivery on its way to becoming "complicated". I worry I won't have enough energy to push and will end up with any number of interventions, the worst being a C-section. I long for a 15 minute break to clear my head and regain focus, but know it is impossible without medication, which I also don't want. In the end, the exhaustion gets the better of me and I reluctantly ask for anepidural. I feel as if have failed, or my body has failed, I'm not sure which. Disappointed in myself, I apologize to Sam and weep as I wait for the effects to kick in. I am sure things are only going to get worse, and that my labor will slow down further because of the epidural and I will have to get the C-section anyway. And I worry that Psite will be affected and will be slow to latch and nurse. At that moment, I think everything is going wrong.
30 minutes of napping later, I have much better perspective. Despite my fears, the epidural does not leave me completely numb to the birthing experience. Although it numbs most of my left side and some of my right, I can still feel the contractions increase in strength to the point where I find myself needing to focus my breathing to make it through. I am relieved, actually, to still be able to feel the contractions and to move my legs. I wanted to be an active part of delivery and to be able to push with my contractions.
The nurse checks me again shortly after noon. I am certain that given all the pain, I will be finally be dialated enough to push. But no. And our 24-hour window is closing, with the message that the on-call OB will push for a C-section if things don't change. My delivery nurse, thank goodness, will have none of that. She says that after all I have been through and how hard I have worked, she wants a vaginal birth as much as I do. And so, another intervention of sorts. During one of my contractions, she flipps the edge of my cervix up and over the baby's head and tells me to push -- hard. It worked. The head moved through enough so that we can finally start pushing with the contractions. And boy do we push. We make such progress that the OB, who had just left the building thinking she had several more hours, is called back to catch our little Psite. At 4 p.m., after more than 24 hours of labor, our lives are permanently changed. We become PARENTS.
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