Flashback 2012: "Mother's work is never done."

Photo for the Sun-Times by Al Podgorski, used with permission.

     This was an assignment: for Mother's Day, show how hard a mother works. Eleven years later, a couple things stand out in memory. First, it was a an early lesson in the value of Facebook. I put out a Facebook status appeal for anyone who knew a busy mom I could focus on in the newspaper, and the nominations flowed in.

     And second, in our pre-visit conversation, I mentioned to the mom that I wanted to be at her house when her husband left for work — reflecting my own frame of reference — and her explaining there was no husband; her partner is another woman.

     I was already known as someone with more sympathy to the LGBTQ community than is usual, and worried that my boss would think I had sought out this particular subject deliberately, as a political statement. So I mentioned to him that I had put out a call for a  mother with her hands full, the perfect candidate had been presented: a mom with newborn triplets and a toddler.. But that she turned out to be a lesbian. What should I do?

     "You're always saying this is normal," replied city editor Andrew Hermann. "So treat it as if it were normal." So I did.

      One reason I've lasted 36 years at the Sun-Times is because we tend to have very good bosses, a fact that doesn't get mentioned nearly enough.

     Shhh. They’re sleeping. 

     In four cribs nearly filling the small dark back bedroom of a modest brick home on a quiet street in Skokie. Four little daughters: Malynn, the oldest, who turns 3 next month, plus triplets Annette, Samantha and Cecilia. 

     It’s 5:50 a.m. The day is about to begin — well, the sun is coming up. When any given day begins or ends is an arbitrary distinction for a mother of four children under the age of 3. You could just as well say the old day is about to end. 

      “Samantha just went down,” whispers Michelle Baladad-Widd, 38, sitting in her dim living room a few days before Mother’s Day. OK, “living room” is deceptive. Think “nursery.” Much of the floor is interlocking squares of multicolored foam. The entrances are barred by child gates. Scattered toys. A single orange plastic ring speared on a yellow post. A changing table. Three identical red high chairs wait against one wall. 

      “It was a little rougher night — not too bad,” Michelle says.  Cecilia — Ceci — was up from 1 to 2. Sam got up around 5. Michelle thinks she herself slept from 2 to 4. 

      Did she always want to be a mom? “Did I?” she wonders, as if considering the question for the first time. “I didn’t have that burning desire that a lot of my female friends did to be a mom. I thought it would be cool. But it wasn’t anything that I sought growing up.” 

 Michelle was raised in Wood Dale. Her parents — her father a doctor, her mother a nurse — are from the Philippines. She went to Fenton, then Loyola, and has an MBA and a masters in information system management from Keller. 

     News of triplets “was a shock.” 

     The living room is dim because the electricity is out; it went out the day before. Michelle’s partner, Jennifer Baladad-Widd, 36, returns with coffee. They have been together 17 years, meeting when both were at Sigma Kappa at Loyola. 

     At 7:07 a.m., a sound imperceptible to non-maternal ears sets Michelle to her feet and into the back room. She returns with Ceci — always first out of the blocks. 

    “She’s our wonderful challenge — she’s just much more active,” Michelle says. “She gives us the most run for our money. Being the most active she’s also the most interactive.” 

    One by one the rest awake. Malynn appears, clinging sleepily to Jennifer. Both women busy themselves helping ready the girls. 

      The first diaper of the day is changed. The record is 31, one awful day of triplet diarrhea.  “My mother counted,” says Michelle. 

     “All right ladies, why don’t we get dressed,” Jennifer says at 7:35 a.m. She has the calm command of a public school teacher, reflecting seven years in Chicago schools. 

     Ceci cries and twists away from her clothes as if they hurt. Samantha — Sam — awakens, then Annie. The next half hour is a chaotic ballet. Pajamas are removed, and identical pink-and-white striped T-shirts and gray leggings — Malynn’s choice — are tugged on. The triplets are strapped into their chairs, eventually, and kept occupied with Honey Nut Cheerios while Michelle prepares scrambled eggs. Whatever ends up on the floor doesn’t stay long, thanks to rescue dogs Destiny and Duke. “The clean-up crew,” Michelle says. 

      At 8:10, Jennifer, holding a frozen meal, hurries to the door, late. “OK, momma, I’m heading out,” she says. A substitute after the four-month bed rest required during pregnancy with the triplets, today she is teaching kindergarten. 

 “It’s very strange,” Jennifer says. “I think it would feel a lot less strange if I were with [children in an] upper grade. It feels odd to leave mine and be with other people’s little kids.” 

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—Originally published in the Sun-Times, May 13, 2012