Monday, March 07, 2016

A Working Mom Monday

My darling one year old son, Brighton, went to his first day of daycare or school as I like to call it today. It was just a three hour trial to make sure he did okay. The fact that when I opened the door and he just went running in without looking back made it perfectly clear to me that he was fine.

For those three hours I cried. I asked all the questions...

Why do I have to work?

Why does he have to be so difficult at home now that I can't manage him and work at the same time anymore?

Why do I need to pay someone else to watch him two days a week?

Do I need to send him to a center? Can't I just pay someone to come to me so he's still here in my house?

Why can't I afford a full time nanny at home?

I picked him up and he was happy to see me. When we got home, I tried to put him right in his crib to continue napping but that failed. He let me know that he would purposely bang his face on the crib until he bled rather than go back to sleep.

I then had two 1-hour long calls in which to keep him entertained and quiet. The first meeting he successfully threw almost every toy he owned down the stairs. Then he got unmanageable and I had to put him back in the crib to finally get that nap, but not until after he cried for a good 15 minutes and I cried while on mute on my conference call.

He woke up during my other call, crying. I tried to give him milk, a snack, let him play - all the while during my call. I grabbed a bag of cookies and gave him one and that made him quiet. That one cookie plus five more to end my call on a quiet note. During which Jared texted me to see if he was any better. To which I told him that I had just gave him a shit ton of cookies to keep him quiet and how I'm a terrible mother. To which he replied no, you do what you have to do.

Then after picking up Lyla from school, he threw his blankie in the toilet, that was full of pee.

I looked around my house and saw the hurricane aka Brighton that hit it. I could barely walk up the toy ridden stairs. And it's only 4pm.

Three more hours till my working husband comes home.

Still have to get through gymnastics, dinner while at gymnastics, bath and bed.

Yes, it is time for daycare is what is going through my mind. I need to get work done and he needs to hang out with some little people.

Meanwhile, my tsunami of toys, bloody sheet, and pee soaked blankie will get cleaned in due time.

On a positive note, I'm amazed at how I can handle all this shit and still work. I may have been listening to a load of crap from the babe and intermittently crying but I got work done, I paid attention on all my calls, and I made progress on stuff. Honestly, if they were to give moms Oscars (which they should), I would have been awarded one if not at least nominated.

Some day I will look back on this and wonder how the hell I survived. I will wonder how I did all that I did. I will only know that I loved my children so crazy much that I did whatever it took to keep them healthy, entertained, enriched, and alive. I will also know that the mere hug, smile, or happy face is all it takes to keep me going.

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