I don’t know how we did it.
When my editor suggested I get a bunch of working moms together to see the movie version of “I Don’t Know How She Does It,” it seemed laugh-out-loud impossible.
I cast a wide net, figuring that, given all the sports practices, crash deadlines and general familial mayhem, there would be no way to get more than one mom to chuck it all on a Friday night to see a chick flick.
Here are some of the e-mailed responses I got back:
From the statistician, mother of two little girls: “It just happens to be a particularly crazy weekend (school picnic! First soccer practice! Swim class! Work gathering!), and [husband] out of town.”
From the international lawyer, mom to a boy and girl: “I have to man the PTA table..I have BTS (that’s Back To School) night tonight — and conveniently [husband] is out of town. . . .I will be rushing a little on Friday as we are doing [nanny’s daughter’s] birthday celebration at around 5 p.m.”
From the university psychology professor, mother of two girls: “Oh this is just what I need, but since when are my needs a priority? Anyway, [daughter] has soccer practice and a pep rally Friday evening (heaven help me), but let me see if I can get my husband or somebody else to take her.”
From the business analyst, also a mother of two: “Unfortunately, I have been away for work. . . . and I’m afraid the kids and hubby will kill me if I abandon them again. Any chance you are going to the late show? Maybe I can steal away.”
This is what life is like for working moms.
You can be like most of the movie reviewers, especially the male ones, and say you’ve heard enough of the working woman woes. It’s an old story/cry me a river/you’re lucky you’re not unemployed or a single mom, right?
But guess what? We as a society haven’t solved this yet. Whether you are a banker managing your own investment fund or a waitress working the swing shift, earning a living and raising a family is still an exercise in insanity.
So I was stunned when nine of us gathered in the theater lobby Friday night. We all looked as excited as 13-year-old girls about to meet Justin Bieber. It was kinda scary.
My movie moms included a banker, an editor, a hotel general manager, a public policy advocate, an energy lawyer and — I swear — a rocket scientist.
It wasn’t the indulgent need to party that made these women move heaven, Earth and soccer practice to get there. “It’s an important issue, and we need to agitate,” was what one of them said — and just about all of us felt.
The best-selling book, written a decade ago by Allison Pearson, had meant a lot to us.
When I read it in 2005, I had just returned to work after having my first child. I should have been happy that it was all coming together: great job, cute baby, a return to pre-pregnancy weight. But I was crying in The Post company car, tethered to the car’s charger by a breast pump, staking out a crime scene where I’d probably be for hours.
I felt like a freak. The attempt by fictional protagonist Kate Reddy to bash a store-bought pie with a rolling pin to make it look homemade for the school bake sale reminded me I wasn’t alone.
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