Wednesday, 18. September 2013
I finally returned back to work (the office version) this week. I’m either Lindsay Lohan or a working parent. It’s hard to tell when I look in the mirror.
Because Reagan is only 10 weeks old, Laef decided to take a week off of work and stay home with her. This will also save us a million dollars in day care fees so despite the fact that Laef is not stoked about missing work, he is on board with this plan.
Back in the day when we talked about having kids we always knew that we wanted to have them close in age. Mostly because I am old, but also so that they’ll be close as they grow up. I am still pleased with this plan because I am done being pregnant. I am one day closer to losing the sweet backpack I carry to work. I am one day closer to not having to hide in a quiet corner at work pumping milk while hearing my coworkers voices. I mean, seriously, I am all for having it all! doing it all! working mom!, but I really just can’t with my boobs exposed at work.
Although, this woman seems to have the whole thing figured out:
and I guess if I could drink wine and pump at the same time, I’d be happy to head to the bar for happy hour with my coworkers. Talk about doing it all.
Anyway, there are a lot of things associated with pregnancy and newborns that I am happy to leave behind. Lack of sleep is probably the biggest one of all. Because Laef is staying home this week, and I am working off-site, the agreement is that he will handle a majority of the middle of the night duties. This is how it was all summer with me letting him sleep through the night because he was going to work. The assumption being that when Reagan naps during the day, the stay-at-home worker can take a nap. I was shocked to learn when I returned to work that there is no designated nap hour, and by Tuesday afternoon my body was like, What The Fuck, and I was scrambling trying to figure out how to not look like a heroin addict while talking to my colleagues.
This is not to say that because Laef is at home he has it easier. Rationalizing with a 2-year old at 6 a.m. after sleeping for about 3 hours because one child peed the bed twice and the other woke up three different times to eat, is probably comparable to even the most difficult rehabs Laef will see this year (I hope I didn’t just offend all my athletic trainer friends).
Harper: “I want pink milk daddy.”
Laef: “The pink cup is dirty.”
Harper: Throws herself on the floor. Reagan wakes up. Harper runs over and tries to shove the paci into Reagan’s mouth.
Laef: “Reagan doesn’t want a paci.”
Harper: Throws herself on the floor. “I neeeeed a paci.”
It’s one of those mornings: EVERYONE NEEDS A PACI. EVEN DADDY.
I’m listening to everything from the bathroom where I’m quickly trying to apply eyeshadow so that when I show up to work I don’t look like someone who has two kids under the age of 3. I’d like to have my hair looking like I just stepped out of the Dry Bar and not like I was at the bar all night. And then I realize that this is going to be a two-person job so I say fuck it, and make myself as presentable as possible and head out to the living room to start the first part of my workday.
Laef and I manage to get everyone dressed and fed. I look at Laef and realize he’s in a daze and maybe I should volunteer to take Harper to school even though it means I will be at least 15 minutes late because she will insist on walking to the car herself, and low and behold there will be something cool to look at on ALL 24 stairs down to the car. Harper will then have to get herself in the car seat, and I am also not allowed to buckle it. So I have to watch for 3 minutes while she fumbles around with the buckle before declaring, “I need help.”
Well, no shit.
Two blocks later she has to pee. And a decision has to be made: Risk it or pull over?
It’s my first week back, so I decide to risk it. We make it. She doesn’t pee in the car seat. Hooray.
I then spend the whole drive looking at the clock realizing that the decision to have two kids two years apart is going to be awesome in like 25 years when we will all be sitting around the Thanksgiving table looking back on this year fondly. I will tell Harper how she insisted Reagan have a piece of corn from her dinner plate. Or how she loved holding Reagan until she threw up on her, at which point Harper basically threw her on the ground. Or how – when the stars aligned just right – they would both be sleeping peacefully in their pink and brown room with the walls covered in stickers and Laef and I would just stare at both of them so fondly (when they are sleeping it’s very easy to gaze fondly upon them and feel so proud of what you are doing).
I know everything we are going through right now is going to be a blip on the radar so I’m trying to enjoy the fact that while Harper thinks she is a big girl, she’s really still just a baby.
I mean, who says: “Mommy. I don’t wear a diaper. I wear panties. Reagan’s a baby. I’m a big girl” all while clinging to a pacifier?
Even though life is one gigantic clusterfuck right now, it’s exactly how we planned it.