Make Me End Where I Begun

To begin at the ending, my first day back at work went so well that as I was walking out the door at 5:30, it was with a twinge of regret that I wouldn't get to go back the next day. Everything and everyone had remained so indelibly the same that it wasn't at all like jumping blindfolded into unfamiliar waters but instead like stepping into a warm bath at my own home--albeit a bath that I'd been absent from for some time, if I dare use such an embarrassingly salient metaphor (and apparently I do).

Despite the loss of two employees and the watercooler, all of which went to live at the same farm as 10 percent of my paycheck, it was otherwise as if I'd never left. Same old comforts, same old drama, same old square of cardboard under my chair because I can't decide on a rug. (In the event any coworkers need to breakdance, at least I'll have a front row seat.)

And speaking of coworkers--some of whom I dearly missed--after recovering from the initial shock of seeing me in a skirt and heels, several people asked if it felt strange to be without my baby for a day (many of them comparing him to a recently severed limb; odd). It surprised no one more than myself that my answer to that question was "no, not really." In actuality, it was harder to be without my camera for the day, and not because anything photo-worthy happened (they tell me I missed the mysterious honeybee infestation by twenty-four hours) but because I've taken my camera to work with me every single day since I got it in August of 2005. My baby, on the other hand...I've never taken him to work with me for the day--at least not ex utero--so it seemed perfectly natural to be at the office without him. The strangest part of the day was definitely realizing how not strange I felt.

But then, of course, I would look at the framed picture of Wombat I'd set up next to my monitor and my heart would swell and ache, and oy, my boobs would swell and ache, and I would remember that things were most definitely different now, no matter how quickly and completely I could lose that new self in the minutiae of ISBN numbers and trim sizes and price codes. Sitting there with my red pencil and post-it tags, I felt a million miles away, but then one sidelong glimpse of my son's face and I'd snap back like a rubber band. Take that, John Donne and your wimpy compass.

I mentioned I'd left my camera home, and that was as a major hint to Simon to document absolutely everything that happened and then email me sporadic updates throughout the day. Although I didn't get any photos via email, I did get a few phone calls (and bless him for calling when Wombat was sleeping because I don't know if I could have handled hearing him making wakey sounds, either cute or sad ones), and when I got home I found this:

That right there is a tired dad (you're not doing Good Parent Work unless you look like crap, right?) and a sleeping baby and a bathtub. A BATHTUB, my friends. I haven't even dared bathe Wombat by myself. In preparing Simon for his first day alone with the sprog, I told him to not beat himself up when he falls short of his SAHF expectations, and then, what do you know, he went and proved me wrong. I used to roll my eyes whenever he'd tell me his grand Daddy Day plans--how he and his son were going to go to the record store and to the museum and to the park and to the coffee shop; how he and his son were going to take the Bay Area by storm, pirates chasing down a good time--and I would be all yeah, and me and my son are going to jog everywhere and learn French and Chinese and Tagalog while breastfeeding and meet you at the front door each night with your slippers, a martini, and a girly mag. Good luck, stud.

But Simon's a lot more fearless than I am, so I really shouldn't have been surprised at his early success. (In this first two days he and his son have gone to the bank and to the cafe and to the coffee shop and to the grocery store and to the salvage yard and to the thrift store and, oh yeah, taken a bath. That's more than I've done in the past year, sans bebe.) What I definitely am, though, is grateful. In this as in everything, Simon's competence and enthusiasm are not only endearing and admirable, but inspiring. Seeing what he can do pushes me to be better. Now, if I can just learn to ignore the housework as well as he does...

(Sorry, honey, but I had to get a dig in there somewhere because you're making me look bad!)

(Love ya! Smooches!)

So there you have it. We all survived my first day back at work. The bottle feeding was neither a failure nor a success, but that at least gives me something to feel superior about the boys something to work on. As for me, I didn't cry once, and the most uncomfortable emotion I experienced all day was guilt over how shamelessly I luxuriated in all that free, unstructured, grown-up time. A part of me feels it's wrong to admit I really really really enjoyed those hours away from my son, but hell, I'm not CRAZY; if guilt is a necessary part of this game (and I think it is), I much prefer this guilt-about-being-happy than I would guilt-about-being-miserable-because-I-don't-want-to-work-but-I-have-to.

In the end (at this, the beginning), I'm comforted and reassured that my one office day per week will continue to be as un-gutwrenching and un-wristslitting as this first. Working from home, however...that's a tale for another day. (Next Wednesday. Work It, Mom. Be there.)

wrote Leah at 6:37 AM | Comments (13)