One afternoon in late August, I was getting ready to interview the former leader of the free world, one of the most famous people on the planet, and my mind was on my toddler, who would be starting pre-school in a few days.
My son was about to go through a major life adjustment, and I was gone. I would be there for his first day, I reminded myself, and this interview would be a career highlight. But I would miss his orientation, meeting his teacher, and other festivities surrounding this rite of passage for my first born.
As I stood in a manufacturing facility in York, Pennsylvania, that afternoon, waiting for former President Donald Trump to talk to me, the pangs of mom guilt felt particularly sharp.
I’ve covered four presidential campaigns, but this one is my first as a mom. This election of a lifetime comes at a precious time in my sons’ lives. I’ve not wanted to miss out on an assignment, and I’ve not wanted to miss out on my kids, ages three and one. I marvel that I get to witness history for a living. And yet I am absent for important moments at home.
But motherhood has changed the way I think about politics and elections for the better. Our process of selecting a leader also serves as a pulse check of the country, and I see a big part of my job as reporting on what Americans say they need and care about. People clearly have a lot of concerns crowding their daily lives: things are expensive, the world seems on edge, and the future feels uncertain. They want a better, safer life for their children — that’s the essence of the American dream. There are just so many different views about what that looks like.
You don’t have to be a mom to understand these things; you just have to be a human. But this time around, I find I have more empathy than I once did. I also worry more than I used to. And some of the biggest issues in this particular election are ones I’m facing myself.
My first question to Trump that day in August was about the child tax credit. I spend half of my take-home salary on child care. As someone who buys gallons of milk a week for my sons, I cringe at the grocery bill. I am concerned about what my child might be exposed to at school, and whether he is physically safe in the building. I went through fertility treatments to have my first son. I know what it’s like to desperately want a child. And I’m lucky enough to know the joy of becoming a parent. I also suffered from postpartum depression. I know how difficult it is to navigate a medical and mental health system that tends to leave mothers behind.
And I understand that I come from a position of immense privilege, with a doting husband who takes on equal, if not more, parenting duties, two incomes, family close by to help, fantastic childcare and a job that I happen to love. The resources I have are not available to most. That is an injustice. And it’s setting women back.
All of this informs my reporting. Many of the voters I’ve met on the campaign trail just need someone to hear them. And I’ve been trying to listen. I’m in awe of people willing to pour their hearts out to a reporter — a complete stranger — in the hopes of making a difference. I won’t forget sitting in a living room in North Carolina as a couple described their difficult IVF journey to me. And I won’t forget a woman I met at a Trump rally in Virginia who told me her son had died from an overdose.
To have conversations like those, I’ve missed some conversations at my own dinner table. I was in a battleground state instead of attending back to school at night. Lately, I’ve spent more nights in hotel rooms than in my kids’ rooms, tucking them into bed.
But my boys are on my mind at every minute, from the big interviews to the small scenes. I got to FaceTime them from the floor of the Republican National Convention. I ordered their Halloween costumes while on the Trump press plane, flying somewhere over the Midwest. I bring them home books from the states I’ve visited so they can learn about where I’ve been. And everytime I see a construction vehicle on the trail, I take photos for my digger-loving three-year-old. (Yes, “the garbage truck” was a hit.)
My youngest son is on the verge of taking his first steps. I’m crossing my fingers that he waits until after I get home from covering the election. But if not, I know he’ll keep walking. And I will, too. Being a mom and being a journalist are the honors of my life. And I am incredibly grateful for this journey.
Leave a Reply