Eating Cake
Consider this post a whisper. I doubt the topic can withstand much more.
Superstitiously I believe that to speak aloud the weird complexity--the fragility--the blending of worlds, will shatter the tenuous balance of responsibilities that characterize my life.
My caution is multifaceted.
What I'm doing has never been done before. Let me rephrase. There are other women who are living a life like mine, but from the little glimpses I've seen of their lives, whether through news networks, social networks or otherwise, they live as trailblazers and explorers.
This isn't about feminism. This isn't about proving the worth of women over the importance of being with your own child or visa versa.
From what I've seen, these women aren't out to make statements about the role of women. They are simply doing what they believe is best for their own families for this specific time.
So this post is not a treatise, a statement, a model, or a finger wagging.
This post is a whisper about my life in this season.
Before CutieBabyBoy, I had the classic 40 hours a week in the office job. And then came baby. And, as one of my co-workers so gently asked me, I didn't want to put my baby in a "kennel", did I?
No, no I didn't.
And so developed a weird sort of life where S.O.S. and I play "pass the baby baton" in the parking lot as he heads home from a morning shift and I look forward to as much productivity at the office before all my co-workers end their day. Where I join a conference call from home and time my unmuted moments in between reciting "One Fish, Two Fish" and providing sound effects for the monster truck. Where naps are measured in how much work I accomplish and awake time is measured by snuggles and tickles and blocks and walks. Where the less frequent full day in the office is filled from tip to tail with Accomplishment.
Now don't mistake: I don't want to convey that I hear angels singing or see a light beaming from heaven while I change even the messiest of diapers or answer the worst of emails. My laundry goes unfolded, my dishes pile up and march across the counters, and not a day goes by that I don't thank God that I have only 473 square feet of house to declutter. Parenting is still parenting and work is still work, but this tight-rope walk of mine has it's own sort of endorphin rush.
Tomorrow CutieBabyBoy may turn into a Bad Napper or suddenly decide that he's had enough of extroversion and doesn't ever want to leave Mama's side. Or it may become unrealistic for my supervisory role to be executed from afar. Or S.O.S. may have a shift in job responsibilities that will keep him from the baton race. Or CutieBabyBoy's adopted grandmothers who fill in some of the childcare hours may decide they can't keep up with an active boy.
But today, today I can't help but think that I have my cake and get to eat it, too.
So this post is not a treatise, a statement, a model, or a finger wagging.
This post is a whisper about my life in this season.
Before CutieBabyBoy, I had the classic 40 hours a week in the office job. And then came baby. And, as one of my co-workers so gently asked me, I didn't want to put my baby in a "kennel", did I?
No, no I didn't.
And so developed a weird sort of life where S.O.S. and I play "pass the baby baton" in the parking lot as he heads home from a morning shift and I look forward to as much productivity at the office before all my co-workers end their day. Where I join a conference call from home and time my unmuted moments in between reciting "One Fish, Two Fish" and providing sound effects for the monster truck. Where naps are measured in how much work I accomplish and awake time is measured by snuggles and tickles and blocks and walks. Where the less frequent full day in the office is filled from tip to tail with Accomplishment.
Now don't mistake: I don't want to convey that I hear angels singing or see a light beaming from heaven while I change even the messiest of diapers or answer the worst of emails. My laundry goes unfolded, my dishes pile up and march across the counters, and not a day goes by that I don't thank God that I have only 473 square feet of house to declutter. Parenting is still parenting and work is still work, but this tight-rope walk of mine has it's own sort of endorphin rush.
Tomorrow CutieBabyBoy may turn into a Bad Napper or suddenly decide that he's had enough of extroversion and doesn't ever want to leave Mama's side. Or it may become unrealistic for my supervisory role to be executed from afar. Or S.O.S. may have a shift in job responsibilities that will keep him from the baton race. Or CutieBabyBoy's adopted grandmothers who fill in some of the childcare hours may decide they can't keep up with an active boy.
But today, today I can't help but think that I have my cake and get to eat it, too.
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