A Mommy Story

Not too long ago, I lived my life like a little Pavlovian pup. My cell phone would ring and an editor would be on the other end of the line, telling me about a shooting at a local church, an Eric Rudolph arrest, a Terri Schiavo court battle, a family that lost their son in the Iraq War. “Can you get over there and find out what’s going on?” these editors would ask me. And I’d always say yes, all the while mentally preparing myself for how I’d drop what I was doing – the leisurely morning with the husband, the in-law visit, the plans with the girlfriends – and get myself into indispensable get-to-the-bottom-of-it mode.

Being pregnant with my first child did not stop me from carrying on like this. Seven and a half months along, I covered a story about a woman held hostage by a courthouse shooter. I drove two hours to Augusta – The soundtrack? My constantly ringing cell phone. – to cover a press conference where the onetime hostage asked the media to leave her alone. It was cold outside that night, and colleague of mine told me I shouldn’t even be there. “Why?” I barked at him, knowing what his answer would be. “I’m pregnant. I’m not dead.”

Or was I?

A month later my water broke at the end of a day when three news outlets called me about covering the story of a missing bride-to-be. Halfway through the calls, these editors realized I was “due to pop any day now” and decided not to send me out on the assignment. “Come on,” I said. “I’m not due for another two weeks. It’ll be fine.” They begged to differ. And before long, the phone stopped ringing altogether. Meanwhile, I was full of that terrible little feeling you got back in grade school when you weren’t picked for the kickball team; you want to be in the mix, but you’re forced to sit there and watch.

Though I didn’t know it at the time, these editors saved me from myself. Hours later, I was in a hospital gown, readying myself for the womb-cracking effects of the Pitocin that started dripping into my veins and for a life that probably wouldn’t resemble the one I knew before I walked through the hospital doors.

For the first time in years, it was time to turn my cell phone ringer off.

It has remained that way ever since, thanks to a little hazel-eyed bundle who helped me slow down and recognize that the most important call to answer was her own. These days, I don’t jump into action – and out of my own precious existence – every single solitary time the phone rings. Thanks to my daughter and husband, I’ve learned that it’s possible to be a good reporter and still tell an editor “No. I can’t work during the holiday. I’ll be spending it with my family and friends this year.”

Paige Bowers is an Atlanta-based freelance journalist whose work has appeared in The New York Times, TIME Magazine, People and Allure. But her proudest accomplishment is her 20-month-old, duck-loving daughter, Avery Lane. She blogs about life with this tough little boss at The Avery Lane Experience, which is where you can find Christina today. If you’re interested in participating in next month’s Blog Exchange, click here for more details.