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Then Malia was born, a Fourth of July baby, so calm and so beautiful, with
big, hypnotic eyes that seemed to read the world the moment they opened.
MaliaÆs arrival came at an ideal time for both of us: Because I was out of
session and didnÆt have to teach during the summer, I was able to spend every
evening at home; meanwhile, Michelle had decided to accept a part-time job at
the University of Chicago so she could spend more time with the baby, and the
new job didnÆt start until October. For three magical months the two of us
fussed and fretted over our new baby, checking the crib to make sure she was
breathing, coaxing smiles from her, singing her songs, and taking so many
pictures that we started to wonder if we were damaging her eyes. Suddenly our
different biorhythms came in handy: While Michelle got some well-earned sleep,
I would stay up until one or two in the morning, changing diapers, heating
breast milk, feeling my daughterÆs soft breath against my chest as I rocked
her to sleep, guessing at her infant dreams.
But when fall came-when my classes started back up, the legislature went
back into session, and Michelle went back to work-the strains in our
relationship began to show. I was often gone for three days at a stretch, and
even when I was back in Chicago, I might have evening meetings to attend, or
papers to grade, or briefs to write. Michelle found that a part-time job had a
funny way of expanding. We found a wonderful in-home babysitter to look after
Malia while we were at work, but with a full-time employee suddenly on our
payroll, money got tight.
Tired and stressed, we had little time for conversation, much less romance.
When I launched my ill-fated congressional run, Michelle put up no pretense of
being happy with the decision. My failure to clean up the kitchen suddenly
became less endearing. Leaning down to kiss Michelle good-bye in the morning,
all I would get was a peck on the cheek. By the time Sasha was born-just as
beautiful, and almost as calm as her sister-my wifeÆs anger toward me seemed
barely contained.
ôYou only think about yourself,ö she would tell me. ôI never thought IÆd
have to raise a family alone.ö
I was stung by such accusations; I thought she was being unfair. After all,
it wasnÆt as if I went carousing with the boys every night. I made few demands
of Michelle-I didnÆt expect her to darn my socks or have dinner waiting for me
when I got home. Whenever I could, I pitched in with the kids. All I asked for
in return was a little tenderness. Instead, I found myself subjected to
endless negotiations about every detail of managing the house, long lists of
things that I needed to do or had forgotten to do, and a generally sour
attitude. I reminded Michelle that compared to most families, we were
incredibly lucky. I reminded her as well that for all my flaws, I loved her
and the girls more than anything else. My love should be enough, I thought. As
far as I was concerned, she had nothing to complain about.
It was only upon reflection, after the trials of those years had passed and
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the kids had started school, that I began to appreciate what Michelle had been
going through at the time, the struggles so typical of todayÆs working mother.
For no matter how liberated I liked to see myself as-no matter how much I told
myself that Michelle and I were equal partners, and that her dreams and
ambitions were as important as my own-the fact was that when children showed
up, it was Michelle and not I who was expected to make the necessary
adjustments. Sure, I helped, but it was always on my terms, on my schedule.
Meanwhile, she was the one who had to put her career on hold. She was the one
who had to make sure that the kids were fed and bathed every night. If Malia
or Sasha got sick or the babysitter failed to show up, it was she who, more
often than not, had to get on the phone to cancel a meeting at work.
It wasnÆt just the constant scrambling between her work and the children
that made MichelleÆs situation so tough. It was also the fact that from her
perspective she wasnÆt doing either job well. This was not true, of course;
her employers loved her, and everyone remarked on what a good mother she was.
But I came to see that in her own mind, two visions of herself were at war
with each other-the desire to be the woman her mother had been, solid,
dependable, making a home and always there for her kids; and the desire to
excel in her profession, to make her mark on the world and realize all those
plans sheÆd had on the very first day that we met.
In the end, I credit MichelleÆs strength-her willingness to manage these
tensions and make sacrifices on behalf of myself and the girls-with carrying
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