Tomorrow I go back to school (or, hello self-indulgent introspection and academic angst)

OK, so I went to school last quarter, too, but this still feels like a Really Big Deal to me.

Last September, I finally enrolled in massage school. I’ve been studying homebirth midwifery off and on for years, and considered ramping that up and looking for a school or an apprenticeship, but with the Boychick still so young, and potentially another chick somewhere down the road, I decided I couldn’t pursue midwifery right now.

But goddess knows I needed something to do. Don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy (and dread and everything in between, though on whole it’s a joy and well worth it) spending my days with the Boychick, but without something to focus on, the possibility to focus just on him, to the detriment of our relationship and my sanity and my identity, is too great.

So the idea of massage school, always tickling the back of my mind, came to the fore and started knocking my mental door. Again.

Why massage? Why not, say, university and feminist studies? I can certainly name several reasons why not enter a profession that is primarily and traditionally female, that trades on the touch and caring servitude of a woman (and that feminist studies degree is also something I dream of — I think if I had my way I’d be in school for the next century), but the plain and simple truth is, I like it. I’ve been giving massages since I can remember, and I’m pretty darn good at it. It’s a flexible career that doesn’t demand I be in an office 40 hours a week (something I am constitutionally not good at, not that I think it’s good for the rest of humanity either). Plus I can attend to pregnant and postpartum women, and infiltrate their barriers with subtle messages of feminism and attachment shared-parenting (“your work said what to you?? here, let me give you a number to call about discrimination in the workplace”, “have your partner walk around with the baby in the sling for an hour so s/he doesn’t need to cry during our session”).

But back to going back to school.

I felt such anxiety at the start of last quarter, when I took just one class, one day a week, for three hours in the evening — partly due to concerns about my rocky history with school repeating itself, but largely due to concerns about leaving the Boychick. I’d never been apart from him that long before — by my own desire. And the separation wasn’t always good for either of us (think of The Man running around for three hours trying to distract a toddler who was used to always nursing when he woke up from his nap, me lying very uncomfortably on the massage table with overfull breasts), but I think it was also good for both of us. He learns that not just dadas go to work, but mamas do too. I get to recharge and improve myself (and get a massage, if a practice one!), and have a focus and a goal for the rest of the week. And eventually, I’ll be able to earn a decent wage doing something I enjoy, so we can start paying off the outrageous career loan, that is, both earn income.

This quarter I’m going for two classes, putting me out of the house twice a week, for a total of 8 hours or so. Which is nothing, right? Women-with-children everywhere manage that every day. (Meanwhile the patriarchal outpost in my head is screaming at me alternatingly “you should do that too!” and “other women manage to NEVER leave their precious babies!”; it’ll say anything to break me down and make me hate on myself.) So anxiety over that meager a separation is just self-indulgent whiney angst, right?

But still… for us, for me, for now, a big deal.

(Next post, a return to the fierce, feminist ranter you’ve come to love, or at least read, as I discuss sexism in children’s books!)