For a while, it seemed to work. The sacrifices weren't all that bad. Going out to the movies gave way to VCR's and video clubs. Restaurant dinners gave way to gourmet takeout and deliveries of Chinese food. There were some new costs—child care, for example, ran to at least $10,000 a year for full-time help. But that could be endured: After all, mom and dad had careers on the rise.

But then something started to change. It happened first to the women, who discovered that being away from their young children made them feel both guilty and sad. "Quality time" somehow didn't compensate for "quantity time"—particularly not when the women came home to their children, exhausted from long days at work.

"I remember the first week I went back to work," says Mary Simms*, a 34-year-old doctor whose child is now twenty months old. "I thought it was a piece of cake. By the third week, it was a disaster. The nanny was with the baby 50 hours a week, my husband worked at home, and I was convinced I'd be number three with my child. I went to my boss and told him I'd like to work four days a week. He said, Sure, no problem. It was ridiculous, of course. I still had the same amount of work. For the past year, I've worked six days and been paid for four. I was too embarrassed to go back to my boss. I would love to work a three-day week. The catch is that I'm in competition for tenure with a lot of people who are working full-time. My child, it turns out, is a great, calm kid. The problem is with me. I miss my baby terribly."

Call it the working-mother blues. By temperament, Phyllis Harlem, 37, is ebullient and energetic. But these days, she frequently dissolves in tears at the frustration of trying to combine a career with a family. A lawyer who works for the city enforcing housing codes, Phyllis is deeply committed to her work. As a result, she gets home at seven or 7:30 each night, feeling exhausted. The long hours at work make time with her two-year-old daughter, Jessica, more precious. "I just want to give, give, give," she says. "I adore her so, and I feel so much guilt at being away that I'm probably too intense when I'm with her."

"Quality time" can't really replace "quantity time."

Jessica rarely goes to sleep before 9:30 or 10 P.M.—and Phyllis rarely manages to stay up past eleven. That leaves little time for anything else—including her husband. "We never sit and just talk," she says. "We're just too tired." In order to steal a few moments for herself, Phyllis takes the local subway home from work—instead of the express.

Phyllis's husband, Jerry Siegel, feels just as overwhelmed. A 42-year-old accountant who often works later than his wife, Jerry is, by nature, low key. "It used to be when I got home from my job, it was over," he says. "Now I go from one demand to another. It never lets up." Nearly every night, Jerry falls asleep early, only to wake up at 2 A.M., worrying about work or money, or brooding about an argument with Phyllis born of their mutual exhaustion. It's a vicious cycle: Frequently he doesn't fall back to sleep until six, only to awake again at seven to face another day.

For Jerry, one of the compensations of working hard has been the opportunity to get away in the summer. He and Phyllis cannot afford to rent a house on their own—in part because they have large mortgage and maintenance payments on the Upper West Side co-op they bought as insiders five years ago. For many years, they've taken summer shares with other couples in various houses on Fire Island. This summer, they are in a four-bedroom house, sharing one bedroom with Jessica. The three other bedrooms are occupied by couples who are sharing with their young children. With so many people living in such limited space, weekends are more of the same.

So why try to keep it up at all? "Sometimes," sighs Phyllis, sinking back in her living-room couch, "I fantasize about retiring, buying a farm, moving to fresh air and space."

"We wouldn't buy a farm, Phyllis," retorts Jerry. "We don't like farms."

Phyllis nods sadly. "I guess I'm addicted to New York. You walk down Broadway and it's a scene, an event. I find it exciting—and I love the idea that Jessica is exposed to so many different people and experiences. I don't want to deprive her." She shakes her head. "I'm stupid. We're struggling, and I want to have another kid. I'm not willing to give up anything. I'm spoiled; I know it. We have so much more than most people. It's just I didn't expect it to turn out this way. I work so hard, come home, see my kid for a couple of hours, fall asleep, and then it starts again. Where's the fun?"

Related:

• Archive: “Features”
• Articles by Tony Schwartz
• From the Jul 15, 1985 issue of New York