…it’s off to work I go….er…off to work I went.
That’s right. Things have been kind of quiet here on the blog this week as I’ve been engaged in a time-sucking military-esque operation. How can one little being add so many layers of complexity? There are so many steps involved in just getting myself ready to go to work and now I’ve added a bunch more for the baby. The whole thing feels like a precarious house of cards or a domestic Ponzi scheme. One mis-step, one neglected task, and the whole thing will go pear-shaped. I just know it.
Every evening after the babe is in bed and before I go to bed, I pump my boobs. We then use that milk to make up bottles for daycare the next day. Not only that, but now we have to pack solids as well. Solids for breakfast, lunch and an afternoon snack. The pile of tiny Tupperware takes up more volume than my son. How does he eat it all? His ability to pack away more than his own volume in food and milk everyday is enough to make me believe in multiple universes because I must be feeding more than one baby. I have the Schrödinger’s cat of babies. He simultaneously splits into two separate probability states every time he picks up a piece of food – that’s the only way to explain it. One baby continues merrily along a world track where he’s stuffed with asparagus and the other baby travels along a world track where the asparagus ends up on the floor.
We also have to pack various costume changes. My son clearly thinks he’s a tween pop-star on a world tour and he doesn’t want his audience to get bored. Or maybe he is a character in an Austen novel who needs different outfits for breakfast, shooting, tea, and dinner…have I really given birth to an English country dandy gentleman?
In the morning, the alarm goes off at 5:30. Ah…I rouse gently out of bed everyday to the dulcet tones of the CBC which really means that I doze through the local news (on the half hour) and wake up in a panic at a quarter to 6 while they are discussing some earth shattering important topic like a rural women’s group that gets together every monday for a knitting circle, celtic fiddling and traditional goat cheese production. Something about the fiddling increasing the goats’ milk supply? Who knows? I’m still groggy.
Stumble to the kitchen to get the coffee going.
Stumble in and out of the shower while hubby stumbles out with the dog.
Stumble to the baby’s room and apply him to the boob.
After feeding, change the baby. Stumble to the kitchen where hubby has poured the coffee, added milk and sugar and made breakfast. Carry all of the above, plus the baby, to the playmat on the floor.
Play with the baby while cramming food and coffee down the hatch.
Throw everything I need for work into a bag, grab my lunch from the fridge (and oh, dear, one day I’m going to take the baby’s lunch by mistake…I just know it), throw some shoes on and I’m out the door by 630. Hubby then gets to play with the baby, dress him, pack him up and walk him to the daycare around 730 on his way to work.
More CBC on the radio in the car…I hope they reply that bit about the goats because I didn’t really understand it the first time…
Work work work.
Back in the car. Anesthesia podcasts on the way home (may as well learn something). I pick up the baby at the daycare. We get home just in time for dinner (seriously, all this kid does is eat). We play with food for a half hour or so and I confess that I eat some of it because I often find myself in need of a snack at that time. Then its bath time, nursing time and bedtime.
Dinnertime for the adults and, if we are lucky and not too exhausted, time for one of us to skip out and get some exercise.
Round and round we go and I’m pumping again and packing lunch and falling into bed.
As far as working parents go, I feel really lucky. I get to see my son every morning and almost every evening. Once this week something kept me late at the hospital so hubby got the baby from daycare and put him to bed. When I got home it was hard not to run in there and disturb him. I missed him. But every other day last week I got play with him in the evening. I also have to confess, that I’m glad I’m not the one who drops him off at daycare because I find that really hard. I get to be the one that picks him up, which I find much easier.