In my third year of university, I wrote a paper on the illusion of choice of mothers who are forced to choose between pursuing a career and raising a family full time. In the paper, I pointed out the root causes of the problem; patriarchy and neo-conservative government policies. I critiqued the devaluing of social reproduction and care work. I had a list of recommendations and made an impassioned plea for a better understanding of the problem, a national childcare program and more support for all mothers. 

But I was not personally invested in the story beyond theories and jargon. I was filled with a level of arrogance that only the naive can afford. Surely, I would not face this particular problem. 

I figured I would only marry a man who wanted to share the duties of raising a family equally. I also knew that as a social worker, I would not be working for corporations that only cared about profit. I believed that with the right choice of a partner and workplace, I could push back against the system. 

Ten years, three children, and a global pandemic later, I find myself living in what was once only an academic theory.  

It remained a theory to me until I had my second child in 2018 and went back to work the following year. My husband and I both worked full time and shared domestic tasks. For our older daughter, we accessed the $25-a-day daycare established by the government of Alberta in 2017. Our younger daughter stayed home with a family member and we did not have to pay the full rate for child care services for either. 

Every day, my husband, my oldest, and I would leave home at 7:45 am and come back at 6:15 pm. It was an exhausting balancing act and I soon started feeling the impact of it all. A few months later, we fell into some sort of a routine and while it was never easy, it became manageable. We were spending a little less than a third of my salary on childcare which left us financially comfortable.  Furthermore, my husband and I both had time and energy left to rest and pursue our hobbies.  

If 2019 was a balancing act, 2020 completely threw that balance off. After the COVID-19 pandemic broke out, we had to set up a makeshift office in one of our two bedrooms and find creative ways to get the children entertained. The family member who watched our younger daughter took ill and could only help us for a few hours in the afternoon.  Chaos erupted in our household and the line between work and life became fuzzy. 

The organization I worked for adjusted mostly well. We were given access to work laptops and phones and were allowed to work around the family schedules as much as possible. I was grateful for the flexibility but there were still numerous morning meetings and a self-imposed desire to prove that I was doing as much as anyone else. There were still seven hours of work to fit into a day at home and everything was twice as difficult. With no dedicated workspace, no printing equipment, and no childcare services, tasks that used to take 30 minutes took two hours now.

The nature of my job, social work with seniors, meant that our services were in extremely high demand. Working with seniors who needed access to food and medicine meant that there was no luxury to delay work. As much as we adjusted and supported each other, working with a high-need community while resources were stretched took a toll on all of us. As the pandemic raged on and the community got more desperate, the days got longer. Most days I had to force myself to close at 7 p.m., ignore my work cellphone ringing, and literally wash the day off.

Later in 2020, I had my third child and started maternity leave. I was happy to focus on the family only for a while but three months into my maternity leave, I found out that the provincial government here in Alberta was scrapping $25-a-day daycare. In the announcement, there was no explanation as to why the government took away this lifeline for working families. There was, however, a justification about subsidies for “eligible families” which excluded us. Despite being middle income, paying the full rate of childcare would put a financial strain on our family and it seemed unreasonable that we were expected to spend 40 percent of our total income on childcare.

I am now four months away from returning to work and with three kids — two of whom need full-daycare — I am faced with a nearly impossible situation. These days I Google, ask friends and contemplate endlessly. I weigh safety, standard of care, and the cost of different care options.

Sometimes, I Google “At what point does staying home with the kids make better financial sense?” 

I consider quitting the career I worked hard for. But then I think about my family in a refugee camp whom my income supports. I also think about being the first woman in my immediate and extended family to get a university degree and have a professional job. I think about all the little girls I mentored and supported and I feel an immense pressure to show them the way. 

Meanwhile, my feminist husband who is otherwise a dedicated father is nowhere in this. He is not Googling, doing the math or considering giving up his career. The reality of living in a patriarchal western capitalist society and coming from a conservative African background makes it impossible to imagine him as the primary caregiver. Despite all the progress made, women are still the implicit primary caregivers. In most households, women are the ones who manage, arrange and stress over childcare. Moreover, many women such as myself work in the predominantly female-staffed care sector and are already burnt out from caring for others. 

Four months away from my return to work, I still have a dozen questions, a major dilemma, and no real solution. However, I know that whatever I end up doing in September 2021, society’s perception will be that I made a choice. The illusion of choice.

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