I go back to work Wednesday after having been on babymoon for seven weeks. I’m trying to pretend it’s not happening. Because if I think about leaving that sweet little boy in the hammock over there, even with his daddy, I want to curl up. I’m going back to work, and I’m going back to pumping and guilt.
But I have to.
Besides the fact that I’m the gainfully employed member of the family at the moment, I already have had the opportunity to learn that I am not a good “stay at home” mom. I stayed home with Kieran and Anneke when they were three years and newborn, respectively, and it was about the most difficult, depressing thing I’ve ever done in my life. Granted, we had no money and a single car (that Brad used to get to work), but seriously. Those mothers who stay home with their children have earned my serious respect. They clearly have something I do not have. I am a much better mother when I’m working.
So I will leave him.
But I’m leaving him with Brad. I try to tell myself that it’s fine, that he’ll be with his daddy, for chrissakes, and that it’s just for a few hours a day anyway. But I’m still sad.
I know myself, and I know I’ll probably be fine when I’m at work. I have the work ethic of a horse (they work hard, right?), so I’ll blind myself to what’s going on at home, and the hours will fly. But that makes me feel guilty too.
Archer getting a breathing treatment because damnit if he’s not already sick in the lungs like a true Beth boy!
I have so much I need to accomplish before Wednesday, and I’ve been thinking about it — sort of hypothetically — since before Archer was even born. But I really haven’t done much.
I’ve held my baby. Some days, I’ve held him for hours on end. And I haven’t regretted it, even when I haven’t gotten a shower for two days, and the house has turned to shit. There’s just something different this time, and it’s probably because I’m almost certain he’s my last little one, but I just can’t get enough of him.
This is what it’s like to be in love.
