Over the years, I’ve had many female bosses. Some, like Carolina, were amazing.

Carolina ran the fledgling internet marketing division at the Huge Multinational Corporation I worked for. She was just a few years older than me, which put her somewhere around, oh, 31. She was 31 years old, and she had seven of us working for her.

She left the company about two years into my tenure with her, after making sure I got significant raises and recognition. She believed in me.

Sadly, and correctly, she didn’t believe in the company’s vision. She left and became a major bigwig at Whirlpool, offering me the chance to work for her any time I wanted.

Enter Susanne. Susanne, of the neck scarf and the seminar on doing your “colors.” Susanne who milked my status of daughter of a head honcho for all it was worth. Susanne, who repeatedly re-did work I’d slaved over for her.

Susanne, who told me that I would get farther in the company if only I would stop wearing casual pants and apply more make-up.

After Susanne came Denise, delightful Denise, The Earth Mother. A psychologist by trade, she spent her days with piles and piles of tiny, incomprehensible numbers. I’m not sure what they were thinking, transferring me to her. She was warm and witty and supportive of both my family obligations (dying father, fraying mother) and my burgeoning pregnancy.

It was Denise who agreed to let me telecommute two days a week, minimizing the number of hours The Poo would have to spend in someone else’s care.

After my father died, I was granted a respectful and generous bereavement leave. That’s what happens when your late father was one of the inner circle of high-ranking execs, not to mention a very beloved one. My boss’ boss, Peter, called and left me a message the day my dad died, less than an hour after it happened.

After two months, I went back to work.

I found Denise’s office cleaned out, and a new boss on the way.

A new male boss.

Things went on as they do, at these big companies. I finished my work in two hours and spent the rest of the week sneaking out for burritos and surfing the ‘net. Soon enough, it was time to deliver The Poo.

After my maternity leave, I went back to the office with the understanding that I would be working from home Thursday and Friday.

My new boss? The man?

He said no. Two months later, I quit.

That is just one of the many, many reasons that Andi’s post, The Illusion Of Choice, struck me.

Andi is the author of Poot and Cubby, and she is one of my favorite reads. She doesn’t post all the time, but each one is worth the wait. “The Illusion of Choice” was one such gem.

In it, Andi speaks about her return to work and how so many people use the word “choice” to describe her decision. How in reality, mothers working in the home, out of the home or just being home and raising children truly have no “choice.”

I wrote something last year that spoke to this matter, about how no matter what, I am always The Mommy. I never get to be Not The Mommy. No one asks my husband if he regrets going back to work. No one asks my husband why he quit his job to pursue his dream. No one asks my husband why there are no clean socks in the drawer.

Andi is so honest and so clear in her argument that no woman really has a choice that I added one more reason to the list of reasons why I love her so much.

Andi is my kind of feminist. The kind who realizes that the logic behind feminism is flawed.

My take on this particular -ism is that no matter what, we are always women. We cannot escape our gender. We will never be men, and frankly, I don’t want to be a man. I enjoy being a woman.

What I want is a real choice, a society that supports whatever decision I make, a society that does not cast judgment on the way I choose to parent, as long as my children are safe, healthy and thriving.

Like Andi’s kids are. Safe, thriving and healthy. While Andi is at work. While Andi is enjoying her work.

That is why I nominated Andi’s post, “The Illusion of Choice,” for a May Perfect Post Award. Go and read it, now. And let’s stop accusing each other of making bad choices, and band together instead.

Andi, bravo.

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