By Ceres Chill Mom, Candace - The Featured Mom of the Month for May!
TW: Pregnancy Loss
“Do you have what it takes?”
At 26 years old, sitting the interview I had waited months and months for, I remember hearing the question and genuinely believing I knew the answer. I always worked hard, long hours, multiple jobs. I knew how to study and pull all nighters to get things done. I've proved myself before - proved I could supervise people older than I was, proved I could get along and work with people from all backgrounds, all walks of life.
So, I said yes.
I thought “having what it takes” meant getting through the training program, which I knew would mean studying, tests, memorization — learning an entire world I had no prior experience in.
I thought it meant early mornings , overnight shifts, giving up weekends, holidays, losing friends. Having to pay my dues and working tough schedules out of terminals far away from home. I knew I’d have to pass various physical tests to prove I was capable of the job. I thought it meant learning the railroad, proving myself in a male-dominated field, earning respect.
I nodded, truly thinking I knew what I was getting myself into.
What I didn’t understand then was that “having what it takes” would mean coming to work every day in the middle of a pandemic, pregnant, breathing the summer heat through a mask.
It would mean...
Looking down at my swollen belly and having to encounter passengers on drugs, passengers who presented a danger to others, and having to get them off the trains for the sake of everyone’s safety.
Having to climb up onto a locomotive and wondering if I had the strength to heave my eight-month-pregnant body up with just my arms.
Having flashbacks years later of losing my first pregnancy. The blood after pumping on the handbrake on a coach on the south end of the terminal.
Getting the calls from HR six weeks after giving birth to schedule the back to work physical.
Coming back with a baby who refused bottles so bad, terrified that she wouldn’t “just get hungry enough” to take one while I was gone. Would she starve?
12 weeks unpaid FMLA, no maternity. Calculating the days I could stay home before I could no longer pay the mortgage.
So many germs at work, and such a small baby at home.
Forcing my body to oversupply milk because...what if I couldn’t hold a job with breaks consistent enough to keep my supply? What if I burn out and I can’t do it anymore?
Pumping all the time, measuring milk, counting ounces, bottles, days it’ll feed the baby.
Wondering how many weeks, how many months I can keep this up.
The logistics of pumping in a job that moves: everything comes with me, everywhere I go. Portable pumps, nowhere to wash things. Non-potable water in all the sinks. Three sets of pump parts assembled in Ziplocs to save time. Milk in one chiller, water in another. Always dehydrated. Makeshift broom closet “lactation rooms”. Clorox and pump wipes, sanitizer. Moldy food in the fridge, dirty boot marks all over the couch. Food enough for an army, I could eat a house. All in a luggage sized lunch bag.
And as moms do...I continue on.
I put on my uniform, boots, work backpack, pump bag, off I go.
I turn off my phone, FRA regulations. No checking in. Anxiety. Wondering if my baby is eating, wondering if my baby is okay. Intrusive thoughts. If my baby has a fever, if they fell off the bed, if their caregiver can’t reach me. If I can’t get there in time.
I look at my watch. This train is done. I power on the phone and the texts come in. Ding, ding, ding, ding. Smiling baby pictures, I melt. Baby is okay. I’m okay.
I speed-walk across the terminal, weighed down by all I carry. I press the up arrow at the elevator. I step in and press 4. I scan my badge, walk the catwalk overlooking the terminal. Ants. A million tiny people below rushing all the places they have to go.
I scan my badge again, put in the code to the lactation room. I wash my hands, unbutton my shirt. Pain. A lump. Another clog again. I massage it gently with my fingertips and let the pumps go to work. Buzz buzz buzz buzz. I disappear to somewhere else, watching videos on my phone of the baby laughing.
I take the pumps off. I look at them. Check in. Ask how much the baby has had. Compare. Count.
Button the shirt back up, fix the tie, fill water, use the restroom, backpack on, pump bag on. Off I go. Next train. When I get off my last one, I turn my phone back on, and call home for the recap.
Three kids and over five years like this.
The oldest had a good day at school, got a prize for good behavior. The middle is going through it, three is the worst age. The baby is cutting teeth and cranky.
I open the door, the girls scream MAMA!!!! and jump into my arms. My mom knows to let me change and wash up before she hands the baby off. I look up from hugging the girls and his huge baby grin goes cheek to cheek making his little chin disappear. I kiss his sweet little face. My mom follows me around the house with him as he breaks his neck to see me. I put my pump bag down on the counter, toss all the dirty parts into the sink still in their bags. Set my chiller on the counter to be dealt with later, and then I squish my boy.
I glance at the clock. 4pm. What’s for dinner? I open the fridge, assess. Meatloaf, potatoes, green beans. At least it’s something they’ll eat.
I go upstairs and nurse the baby to sleep, watching the girls from the baby monitor app on my phone. He doesn’t want me to leave him. Teething is rough for both of us. I screw up the transfer. Twice.
Finally I get him down. I creep out of the room and make it down the stairs. Back to dinner. I start seasoning the meat, throwing in bread crumbs, milk and egg, take my rings off and start squishing before the girls notice I’m back downstairs. Mama can we help. Of course. I wash my hands. Kids slow you down. That’s the point they say. And they’re right. But I glance at the clock and it’s 4:46. Dinner is at 5.
I get out the toddler knives, the green beans. They go to work. I buy a little more time. If I make meatballs instead we can eat a lot quicker. I start rolling. They start fighting. I try to keep cool. The day is wearing on me. Meatloaf becomes meatballs and real mashed potatoes become instant. I remind myself the kids are fed, they’re growing, they’re happy.
We sit down. 47 reminders about butts in chairs. The baby is the only one I’m not fighting to eat (yet). I promised them ice cream. 6:20.
Bath time. 6:40
Getting dressed, lots of frustration. 6:55
Hair. Teeth.
Book.
I promised two books if they were good.
Kisses, hugs, group hugs.
Door closes. 7:27
Time for the baby.
Diaper, pajamas, sleep sack, sound machine, boob. 8:00
I go downstairs. Yikes.
Toys, hair clips, crayons, snack crumbs on the couch, half eaten dinner on the table, pots and pans, pump parts still in Ziplocs, milk chiller on the counter. Unload dishwasher, reload dishwasher, food away, counters clean, table clean, pick up toys, set things on the stairs to go back up tomorrow. 9:15
I open the cabinet, take out the storage bags, the sharpie, the scale. I pour and weigh out each bag, 4oz. My mom said 16oz today. One bag, two, three.
Supply is dropping. Growth spurt maybe? He's teething so maybe he didn’t do well with the solids? Am I dehydrated?
I wash the chiller and put it on the drying rack. I hear the garage open and greet my husband. We hug a long hug.
Time to go to sleep.
The baby wakes twice, three times? I can’t even keep any of it straight anymore.
Alarm goes off. 2:30am. I sneak out of bed. And slip downstairs.
The kcup is in the Keurig before I fully open my eyes. I press the button and as it heats I open the dishwasher and start assembling the pump parts. I pack my work bag with all I carry, scouring the fridge for better fuel than yesterday. As I get out of the shower I hear the baby starting to whine. By the time I’m in uniform, it’s a full out cry.
When he sleeps well I show up in makeup. When he wakes that’s the first part of the routine to go out the window. I guess I’ll be looking half dead today. I settle him back down and scramble through the rest of getting ready. 3:30.
I get in the car, press start on the pumps, and listen to my audiobook over the rhythmic buzzing. It’s dark outside and I can’t see, so I use the light of my phone to assess, make sure my pumps aren’t overflowing while I drive. I always imagine getting pulled over looking like this- don’t mind me officer, just trying to get to work on time. I pull into the work parking lot and try and select a spot away from people who are on their way in. I slump down in my seat to try to take off pumps without my coworkers catching a show. I pour the milk into my chiller. 4:12.
I lock my car and walk into the register room. I sign in, swipe my ID, check my paperwork. Other crews come in and out doing the same.
The railroad is a weird time vortex. Sometimes you see the same people daily, sometimes it’s years before you see someone again if they go to a different schedule. Someone walks in that I haven’t seen in a while. He’s got a newborn now. The last time I saw him he just found out his wife was pregnant. I blinked and a year passed. We get to talking. Newborns, juggling kids, commiserating. He says I don’t know how you do it here, my wife’s at home and it’s so much- the babies the toddlers, the breastfeeding the pumping, the laundry. All of it. I agree, I say they made light duty and that helped while I was pregnant this most recent time but 6w after birthing a whole human they just want me to be a robot again. I explain how much harder I think it is to return to work than to even have to work the trains massively pregnant. I explain pumping at work and how the logistics are nuts, no wonder nobody does it.
Another female coworker comes in catches bits and pieces. She nods along but says “well you knew what you signed up for.” “I didn’t,” I say. “I had no idea.” Had they told me that all of this would be what it takes, I’m not sure if I’d have signed up for it. But here I am. I keep choosing this over and over but I want better for those who come behind me.
I finish up in the sign in room, put my backpack on, pump bag on my shoulder. I turn my radio on so I can hear my crew as the train pulls out of the yard.
Standing in a vestibule waiting for the next stop, I look around at the passengers, noticing. Businessmen. So many of them. Pomade, nicely fitted suits, glued to smartphones. Blue collar guys. Tons. Plumbers, pipe-fitters, heavy tool bags, exhausted, sleeping heads against the window. Painters, overalls and boots covered in old paint, different colors, some kind of pastry and a coffee, sipping. Older men ankles rested on opposite knees, reading the paper. I look around, where are the women? I find a few. Much older women, silver hair on laptops or reading a kindle. A young woman, skirt suit doing her makeup. Very young. Women in their 30’s and 40’s are somewhere else.
I feel the breaks come on. My body weight shifts and I have to catch my balance. The train stops, I key out, motioning to the other conductor that it’s clear to close the doors. I step back in the train, doors close, I turn my door key, take it out of the panel. I clip it back on my belt, draw my punch back out again, I start down the aisle.
“Good morning, tickets please.”