Our Last Day

Crawling over all in his path

Today is my last day as a stay-at-home mom. I have had ten delightful months with my beautiful little boy, but tomorrow I will start a new teaching job that will keep me out of the house from 6:15 a.m. till at least 4:15 p.m. I feel simultaneously extremely lucky—I know people who have had to return to work a mere eight or twelve weeks after their babies were born—and yet also unjustly oppressed, as I want so much to stay with him and to teach him and to watch him grow. It is trite to say, but babies change so very quickly, and they are constantly learning. I know everything about him right now: every mark on his body, every habit, every babble, every smile; I know where they come from or when they started. I know he has five teeth and that he can crawl and that he loves toddling around in the walker or drunkenly stumbling while someone holds his hands. Doors are his current passion: opening and closing cupboards and sliding doors and even book covers can entertain him for ages. I know he has good balance and is very curious and wilful. I know that he loves making P and B sounds, and that he occasionally screams just to see what it is like. When he picks up a new object, he twirls it around in his hand to examine it from all angles before plucking at it to see if it moves, bends, or tears. I know when he is crying from frustration and when he is tired and when he just wants his mommy. And I am heartbroken to be the one who has to take his mommy away.

I have not even been able to indulge in these last days with him, because we have had to hire a nanny, and she has been here learning his routines and needs and personality. She is lovely, and she cooks and cleans in addition to taking care of the baby, which is extremely helpful, even if I find it rather invasive. (I know that sounds horribly ungrateful, but I have never liked having someone else in my kitchen and laundry room, doing things their own way, especially when I feel like I can't clearly communicate in their language.) The baby is happy and well cared for; he enjoys playing with her and being carried by her, but she isn’t me, and he deserves me. My mother-in-law is also arriving today, to help out in the first week or so whenever Maurizio and I are both at work, which is very kind of her and will give us peace of mind, so I feel all the more guilty for considering it another form of interruption. I feel like Celia Johnson’s Laura in the 1945 film "Brief Encounter," when she and Alec (Trevor Howard) are trying to say their final goodbyes and Dolly Messiter bumbles in.

Poor, well-meaning, irritating Dolly Messiter. Crashing into those last few, precious minutes we had together...

I could have raised a proper Kewpie doll

I know in my rational mind that this is not The End. I know that my little baby will be even more excited to see me in the evenings, and that he will probably snuggle me all night, if I let him. I know that I will see him all day on weekends and holidays, and that I get those long breaks that make the teaching profession so pleasant for mothers. But I also know that I am going to be tired and distracted sometimes, that I may have to bring home work, be it planning or marking, and that I am going to miss some important milestones of his development. And I have this sense of irrational, impotent, and directionless anger, which I want to hurl at my husband for not being a better saver, or at the teaching profession for not providing little nurseries in the classrooms, or at the entire feminist movement for taking women out of the home and thrusting us into the workplace whether we wanted to be there or not.

Ms. Frizzle, style icon

Adding to my emotional state are the typical nerves over starting a new job, wondering whether my colleagues and students will like me, wondering how long it will take me to learn everyone’s names and to figure out where things are, all compounded with concerns over how and where and when I am going to pump breast milk and whether I own enough breast-accessible dresses that are also work-appropriate. I haven’t had to get out of bed before 6:30 in a few months (mostly because I still bring the baby to bed with me somewhere around the 1 a.m. feeding, so when he whines around 5 I just turn over and give him another breast), so I need to re-acclimate to early alarms and decide whether I will shower the night before and try to deal with my curly mess in the morning or will get up a bit earlier to shower before work. My husband and I have to work out a new routine. Before the baby was born, I would get up at 3:50 and get on the ergometer for some exercise before showering at 4:40 and getting dressed while my husband made me breakfast. He would then drive me to the bus stop at 5:20, and then start his own day. This worked well for just the two of us, but I don’t see it being feasible with the little guy, even if we do get ourselves to bed by 9 p.m., which is unlikely. And sleep-deprivation makes it hard for me to concentrate, so I worry that I won’t be an effective teacher, which will make me regret even more that I am giving up time with my own child...

Again, I know my situation is not unique, and that going back to work is a fact of life for most mothers today. I just wish it felt less forced, less rushed. There will come a time, I am certain, when I will be so exhausted by motherhood that I will be running out the door to work. But that time hasn't come yet, and I still have to go. Therefore, I need to mourn a little bit. Thanks for listening.

Locked Out

The last time I attempted to write a blog post was in the summer of 2016. It was a few months before the Head of the Charles (and my wedding!), and I was visiting my family in the US (as well as visiting the venue for the first time and making arrangements). Thinking it would be nice to do a little writing, I planned out some ideas and then tried to log into my Blogger account, but was told my password was incorrect. I tried another one, which was also incorrect. I looked at the super-secret document where I keep some of my passwords and confirmed that the first one had been correct, and I entered it again...and was told that my account would be locked because of too many attempts.

Drink if this has ever happened to you...

Having so much else to do, I decided not to worry about it and forgot about the lock-out till a few months after the wedding, when I wanted to write about our beautiful winter honeymoon in the north of Italy. Then I tried logging in and found, once again, that none of my passwords would work. I did some half-hearted internet searching to see why Google was being so recalcitrant, and considered trying to contact them directly, but there isn't actually a listed contact address or phone number for that sort of thing. Google expects you to resolve your own problems using their Help pages, but if you problem isn't there, there isn't much you can do beyond posting in forums, which is something I have never done. So again, I gave up on it.

The whole succeeding year of 2017 passed in a flurry of pregnancy, job changes, giving birth, learning what motherhood is about, and trying to keep my brains from being addled by sleeplessness, and I did not try to access my blog again until yesterday. When I entered my original password. Again. But this time, by some miracle, it worked.

Surprise!

So, now that I have successfully re-entered the blogosphere, I will see if I can get myself writing again, if only to keep in practice. I am about to start a new teaching job here in Colombia, and I expect that plus mothering a ten-month-old boy will keep me pretty busy, but now and then it will be nice to put some thoughts on (virtual) paper and see how they flow. Thanks for reading, and I look forward to any responses.