Back to Work
So this is my third week back to work, and I might flag myself as a bad mother for saying this, but I sort of like working. I mean, I like attending meetings, feeling productive, having adult conversations on topics other than the relative poopyness of various diapers. And since I've worked from home for the last year, I'm still able to breast-feed and see the baby several times during the day, without feeling like I'm chained to him. Oh no, did I really just compare my child to an instrument of incarceration? That settles it... I AM a bad mother.
Until the school year resumes, Dan is minding the child 8 hours a day, and his mom will take over for those hours once he goes back to work. So when I hear the baby cry now (unlike for the first 6 weeks of his life) I have the exhilerating feeling of knowing that I'm NOT the one responsible for his care.
Unless of course it's feeding time, in which case there's a sort of sign language negotiation between me and Dan as to whether the person I'm speaking with on the phone is familiar enough not to mind the squealing sounds of baby while he gets positioned on the breast... or whether it's a client who might deem the sound of a screaming baby unprofessional... in which case there's a synchronized swimmer type of dance where I try to find a stretch of conversation where I won't be talking, mute my phone, and then yell: "OKAY NOW! BRING HIM NOW NOW NOW!" And then Harvey screams till he's on the breast, and then I un-mute my phone. And then there are still some coos and gurgles when I resume my audio, but hey, they never know, I might not be a working mom, I might just be getting head under my desk.
I mean, anything is possible.
Of course, I'm struggling with the mommy guilt... guilt that I like working, that I need the money from working, that I don't see the baby enough, and that the tumbleweeds of dog hair rolling around our bedroom will clog the air vents and poison us all. (Note to self and internet: there are no air vents in our house... they're called windows.)
But still, it's nice to see my little baby boy, as he comes down the stairs for a mid-morning feeding, as a revelation of cuteness, rather than an every moment obligation of desperateness. Did I just say that? Desperateness? I AM a bad mother. I meant desperation. Desperateness isn't really a word.