Get new job.
Quit old job.
Move cross country.
Start new job.
Within three weeks.
Get married.
Get pregnant.
Have baby.
Move again.
Have another baby.
Buy a house.
Pack today.
Move tomorrow.
Work + toddler + infant + new house = poetry.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Thursday, June 30, 2011
I'm in denial. Maternity is quickly approaching and I want to ...
Denial. This is a good one. Takes its job very seriously - disallowing your mind from going to that place where it really wants to go, the same place that causes unending anxiety. Denial will erase - or redirect - your thoughts to something else: the capture of Whitey Bulger, the Casey Anthony trial, or the fact that Ann Taylor Loft is offering 40% off of everything via your new favorite coupon Web site. After the birth of my second son, I am embarking upon my final two weeks of maternity leave. I am sick-to-my-stomach as I think about this transition from stay-at-home mom of a newborn baby to a working mom of a newborn mom and a toddler making denial my closest confidant right now.
Like so many mothers who have to go back to work full-time after the birth of their children a multitude of emotions permeate our reality: guilt, loss, sadness, regret, resentment, anticipation, and fear. Less than an hour ago I returned home from a wedding shower luncheon for one of my favorite co-workers. Today is a Thursday, so the gathering took place during lunchtime at my place of employment. I dropped my oldest (2.10 months years old) off at my sister's house for a play date and took my youngest (12 weeks old) with me to the party. This was not the first time I have been back at work since I had the baby. Once before I took both kids to the office to see everyone. I am fortunate to have amazing, supportive, caring, funny, and really cool co-workers, and, so, I genuinely want(ed) to see everyone and hear how they were doing and, of course, to celebrate the upcoming wedding of my lovely colleague.
But.
The whole time I was there - and still over an hour later - I have a pit in my stomach that won't go away. I am sick, literally nauseated, at the thought of going back to work, of leaving my baby, my babies. Run away is what I want to do. Hop on a plane with my husband and the two kids and leave the northeast for somewhere cheaper and more hopeful - a state, a community where I can have the option of working part-time or not at all just for a year or two. Reality sets in. I can't leave. No where to go - right now. Two weeks. This is what I have and this time must be savored, like an expensive, gourmet meal that I can't afford or pronounce, or, even see for that matter because it so small sitting on my large, white dinner plate. Instead it will be voraciously devoured like a hungry, postpartum mother who has not eaten since breakfast who only realizes this at dinner time.
Denial will keep me company in the meantime. During meal time, nap time, fun time, all day, all night, every day, every night until the day I get up, take a shower, and start my new, old life as a working mom.
Like so many mothers who have to go back to work full-time after the birth of their children a multitude of emotions permeate our reality: guilt, loss, sadness, regret, resentment, anticipation, and fear. Less than an hour ago I returned home from a wedding shower luncheon for one of my favorite co-workers. Today is a Thursday, so the gathering took place during lunchtime at my place of employment. I dropped my oldest (2.10 months years old) off at my sister's house for a play date and took my youngest (12 weeks old) with me to the party. This was not the first time I have been back at work since I had the baby. Once before I took both kids to the office to see everyone. I am fortunate to have amazing, supportive, caring, funny, and really cool co-workers, and, so, I genuinely want(ed) to see everyone and hear how they were doing and, of course, to celebrate the upcoming wedding of my lovely colleague.
But.
The whole time I was there - and still over an hour later - I have a pit in my stomach that won't go away. I am sick, literally nauseated, at the thought of going back to work, of leaving my baby, my babies. Run away is what I want to do. Hop on a plane with my husband and the two kids and leave the northeast for somewhere cheaper and more hopeful - a state, a community where I can have the option of working part-time or not at all just for a year or two. Reality sets in. I can't leave. No where to go - right now. Two weeks. This is what I have and this time must be savored, like an expensive, gourmet meal that I can't afford or pronounce, or, even see for that matter because it so small sitting on my large, white dinner plate. Instead it will be voraciously devoured like a hungry, postpartum mother who has not eaten since breakfast who only realizes this at dinner time.
Denial will keep me company in the meantime. During meal time, nap time, fun time, all day, all night, every day, every night until the day I get up, take a shower, and start my new, old life as a working mom.
Monday, May 2, 2011
No Crying At Work
Twice today I cried at work. Not sure why. Totally sure why.
Workplaces are not therapy sessions. Work is where we get paid to work. Sometimes, if we are lucky, we become friends with the individuals with whom we work everyday. In these cases we know when it is "OK" to let go and for this I am grateful.
It is late evening now, the boy is sleep and dinner is digested. I am feeling better. More optimistic. Hope-Full. I know that part of this reason is I am lucky enough to have cried at work today - twice and to know it was the right thing to do.
Workplaces are not therapy sessions. Work is where we get paid to work. Sometimes, if we are lucky, we become friends with the individuals with whom we work everyday. In these cases we know when it is "OK" to let go and for this I am grateful.
It is late evening now, the boy is sleep and dinner is digested. I am feeling better. More optimistic. Hope-Full. I know that part of this reason is I am lucky enough to have cried at work today - twice and to know it was the right thing to do.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Not sure about this "blog" thing.
More than six months have passed since my last blog entry. During these months, I certainly thought about writing a post, but I intentionally put it off because I was in the middle of a heated inner dialogue: to continue blogging for Hope-Full or creating a new and anonymous blog.
The summer and fall have passed and this morning Puxatony Phil came out of his cave - or wherever he lives - and said that spring was only six weeks away, so I decided to make a decision. I will begin to write Hope-Full again. I will probably start a new blog as well and keep it private. The issue is not that I want to write about deep seated secrets and neurosis (I already have) but that inevitably I will take into perspective the audience: friends, family, co-workers, acquaintances, and total strangers, letting the knowledge of this visibility influence what I write or how deeply I write.
After all this build up, what do I want to write about? What do I have to say? Should I just provide a quick re-cap of where I am not? Nah, this is not a Dear Diary thing. I will offer that I was not in fact pregnant when I wrote the Juno post. However, the following month, I was pregnant.
In typical fashion, my husband and I had decided to wait another six months or so before trying and bada-bing-bada-boom (why am I using terms like bada-boom?, I was pregnant - and, oh, what a whirl-wind it has been. From learning that there might be complications, to that it might be twins, to learning, it was a boy! Another boy!~?.
I was pretty dang sure I was having a girl. I even went out and bought a few little girl outfits at a yard sale in anticipation. Deep down, I knew it was a boy. Also, because the issues in the first trimester, I had several early ultrasounds and one of the technicians, said that, although she could not say for sure, she thought it was a boy. Even so, I still kept hope.
When the sex was confirmed at 18 or 20 weeks, I was prepared. Admittedly, I was disappointed because I know that there is a 99.9% chance that this will be my last child and the way some young women fantasized about getting married (I never did), I fantasized about having a daughter and teaching her to be a strong young woman with self-esteem and a sense of humor. Don't get my wrong, my boys are going to be taught to be proper feminists as well. My husband accepts it and gets it, as much as he can. He wants to balance the gender neutral stuff with totally stereotypically stuff. Balance. This is the key to life. Our boys will engage in boxing for sport and self-defense and read bell hooks and Gloria Steinem for fun!
The summer and fall have passed and this morning Puxatony Phil came out of his cave - or wherever he lives - and said that spring was only six weeks away, so I decided to make a decision. I will begin to write Hope-Full again. I will probably start a new blog as well and keep it private. The issue is not that I want to write about deep seated secrets and neurosis (I already have) but that inevitably I will take into perspective the audience: friends, family, co-workers, acquaintances, and total strangers, letting the knowledge of this visibility influence what I write or how deeply I write.
After all this build up, what do I want to write about? What do I have to say? Should I just provide a quick re-cap of where I am not? Nah, this is not a Dear Diary thing. I will offer that I was not in fact pregnant when I wrote the Juno post. However, the following month, I was pregnant.
In typical fashion, my husband and I had decided to wait another six months or so before trying and bada-bing-bada-boom (why am I using terms like bada-boom?, I was pregnant - and, oh, what a whirl-wind it has been. From learning that there might be complications, to that it might be twins, to learning, it was a boy! Another boy!~?.
I was pretty dang sure I was having a girl. I even went out and bought a few little girl outfits at a yard sale in anticipation. Deep down, I knew it was a boy. Also, because the issues in the first trimester, I had several early ultrasounds and one of the technicians, said that, although she could not say for sure, she thought it was a boy. Even so, I still kept hope.
When the sex was confirmed at 18 or 20 weeks, I was prepared. Admittedly, I was disappointed because I know that there is a 99.9% chance that this will be my last child and the way some young women fantasized about getting married (I never did), I fantasized about having a daughter and teaching her to be a strong young woman with self-esteem and a sense of humor. Don't get my wrong, my boys are going to be taught to be proper feminists as well. My husband accepts it and gets it, as much as he can. He wants to balance the gender neutral stuff with totally stereotypically stuff. Balance. This is the key to life. Our boys will engage in boxing for sport and self-defense and read bell hooks and Gloria Steinem for fun!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)