I need you all to steel yourselves for the news I’m about to deliver. Make sure you’re seated, and don’t take any comically large gulps of water, because you will surely spit it out all over your keyboard as soon as you read the following:
In 10 days, I — a top five finisher in the race for 2012’s Most Fretful And Annoyingly-Obsessed-With-Her-Kid Mothers — am getting on a plane to go to Chicago for work.
Without my baby.
And I won’t return for 2 1/2 days!
As a “mommy blogger,” I consider it my duty to religiously follow no fewer than one zillion other blogs. Most of the time, my blog obsession results in little more than fits of jealousy as I bemoan the superior popularity of every other blog on the planet (how do you do it?!? Who do I need to bribe?) and drool over all the cool site designs I am too lazy/untalented to implement on this hunk of junk, but every once in a while I glean some serious inspiration from my fellow bloggers.
On Friday, I happened upon a blog written by an insane person. Well, technically speaking, she’s not insane — just one of those maddening domestic goddesses that cooks literally everything from scratch (SHE HAS GOATS AND MILKS THEM DAILY, YOU GUYS) and makes all kinds of awesome crafts (SHE HAS A VINYL MACHINE THINGY, YOU GUYS) and lives super frugally and has a gorgeous house and essentially is everything I wish I could be in terms of homemaking.
Needless to say, my jealousy was through the roof.
But! So was my inspiration! If this woman can make all-natural homemade pop-tarts out of spelt flour (which I had never even heard of but apparently is some sort of even-better-for-you alternative to whole wheat), surely I can take five minutes to fold the clean laundry that’s been rotting in the basket for a week, right?
RIGHT!
And fold that laundry I did. AND SO MUCH MORE! Fasten your seat belts and be prepared to be jealous of ME (unless you are the type of person who makes your own organic soap, in which case, prepare to laugh at my embarrassing attempt to be like you) because I was EXTREMELY PRODUCTIVE this this weekend. Let’s break it down:
Last November, when I was 8 months pregnant with Bubba, TFW was informed that his department was being downsized and thus he would no longer have a job as of January 1. What awful timing for such terrible news, right?
WRONG! I’ve never been so happy in my life.
Prior to getting that “bad” news, I had spent the duration of my pregnancy in a constant state of stress about what would happen after I had the baby. Thanks to this country’s horrific lack of reasonable laws regarding maternity leave (thanks a lot, Obama*), if I wanted to keep my job (and I sure did), I was going to have to return to work precisely three weeks after giving birth.
Which of course meant that I’d have to start looking for a nanny approximately 3 minutes after giving birth (I felt that I couldn’t hammer it down ahead of time because I didn’t know exactly when the baby would be arriving and thus couldn’t give anyone a firm start date, and, more importantly, because I was a nervous wreck throughout my pregnancy and was superstitiously convinced that too much planning would surely result in disaster; yes, I realize how ridiculous that sounds now and yes, the sheer pathetic-ness is making me cringe). And then prepare to hand my three week old newborn over to a virtual stranger every day.
I cried stress-tears every day for about four straight months.
It’s not over yet, but I’m over it.
It being Monday, of course.
How much did I hate today? Let me count the ways…
3: Number of times the baby woke up between midnight and 5:30am
7:29: Time I received a text from the babysitter’s sister reporting that said babysitter was too sick to work
8:00: Time I am supposed to start work
1: Frantic phone call to my mom begging her to let me bring the baby over
6 million: Things I had to do to get the baby and myself ready to head over to my mom’s
7:59: Time I left the house. And no, my mom does not live one minute away.
7: Droplets of gasoline in my car’s gas tank
4.76: Price per gallon of gasoline at the station by the freeway on-ramp
15: Number of times I’ve told people (thus far) about the ridiculous price I paid for gasoline. Seriously, people: $4.76!!!!!!!!!!
41: Minutes late I logged into work
4: Number of things I quickly discovered I forgot to pack in my mad rush to leave the house
102: Approximate temperature the baby spiked shortly after arriving at Grandma’s
0: Amount of baby Tylenol I packed in the diaper bag (I’m sure Grandma loved her trip to the drugstore with a feverish baby in tow…)
250: Approximate count of pathetic whimpers I heard from the baby while I worked (sick baby = saddest sound ever)
1: Number of delicious Chipotle burritos my dad brought me for lunch. At least one awesome thing occurred today!
300: Number of times I apologized to and thanked my mom for being a Certified Lifesaver
0: Number of chilled Caffeine Free Diet Dr Peppers in my fridge when I got home. HOW COULD I FORGET TO PUT A NEW PACK IN?!
0: Number of activities not involving “sit in Mama’s lap” the baby was interested in engaging in this evening
2-1: Current score in the Yanks-Orioles game. The 2 is not the Yankees.
9:45: Time I have to go pick up my sis at the airport tonight. This day may never end…
Is it Friday yet?
Yes, I know today is Wednesday…but my darling child decided that last night was PARTY NIGHT and stayed up playing well beyond his usual bedtime, meaning my own evening routine was pushed back accordingly and I was left with no time to blog (well I could have, but it was a choice between watching Breaking Bad with TFW or writing my post, and, like a true addict, I chose the drugs). Mildly interesting blog topics are hard to come by, though, so I’m soldiering forth with my Tuesday post in spite of the date!
Anyway. Yesterday morning at about 6:30, as I was chopping up some veggies to toss into the crockpot for my delicious chicken and dumplings dinner (heat be damned, I am FORCING fall into my life), I received the dreaded text from my babysitter: she was sick and would not be able to work. Since TFW is Very Important at his workplace and my Certified Backup Childcare Provider (my mom) was busy with non-childcare-related activities, I had no choice but to take the day off myself!
(As an aside, I’d like to point out that I was making chicken and dumplings the last time this happened, too! Clearly, that recipe is cursed. Next time I’m craving it I’ll save it for a weekend or just plan on taking the day off.)
Just like last time, I took full advantage of the rare opportunity to play Stay At Home Mom. I briefly considered staying in pajamas all day and using Bubba’s nap time to catch up on the Lifetime movies cluttering my DVR (sadly, I am not joking — there are at least five on there), but motivation prevailed and I got to work on my to-do list. When you only get a few vacation days per year, you cannot waste them on relaxation!
Well, I am happy to report that the day certainly did not go to waste! Are you ready to be impressed by my productivity? Check out the top ten productive things I did during my one-day reign as Stay At Home Supermom:
Every Friday, my wonderful mama gives my budget a break and watches Bubba for me while I work at her house. This is obviously awesome for me – in addition to the money savings, I love seeing my mom every week; plus, since it’s the only day of the week I have to commute, I treat myself to a delicious Goldstein’s blueberry bagel and a large Mr. Pibb (breakfast of champions) as a reward for getting up at the crack of dawn to battle LA traffic – but Ry Ry is an even bigger fan of the arrangement than I!
Everything is fresh and exciting at Grandma’s, and her house is perfect for a curious little lad: lots of carpet to crawl on (and no pesky stairs!), a plethora of toys (most of them are pink and girly, thanks to The Big Girl Cousins’ dominance over Grandma’s house, but no matter), and Grandma doesn’t mind if you do stuff like to chase around a pillar candle as if it were a soccer ball:
And she agrees that the hearth makes a perfect training platform to practice going up and down a step:
And takes you outside to help with the yardwork (I wasn’t joking about all the pink toys – pink or not, that saucer is bitchin’):
And gives you cookies in the cool big kid booster seat:
And even lets you practice your crime solving by breaking into Grandpa’s safe:
Grandma is the coolest!
Thanks for operating the world famous You Can Count On Grandma Daycare Service – the top choice of grateful (and cheap) daughters everywhere since 1998. Please never close up shop!
Every day when I’m done with work, I emerge from my cave/office eager to begin my daily process of jamming as much quality mommy/baby time in as possible before Bubba heads to snooze-ville for the night. Thanks to my job and his immature and selfish insistence upon going to bed ridiculously early (who does he think he is, a baby?), I only get a few hours with him per day during the week. As a result, I am determined to make the most of our time together after work. I crawl around on the floor with him. We go on walks with the dog. We play outside (well, he plays while I pray that he won’t get stung by one of the evil bees that stalks our yard).
Can you tell that I have a serious case of Working Mama Guilt? Please, send medication and a therapist.
I don’t know about the rest of you, but I had THE BEST DAY EVER.
Why’s that, you ask? Because my babysitter was violently ill, forcing me to take a last minute vacation day and pretend to be a stay at home mom!
At first, I thought I’d take the opportunity to indulge in an all day rest-fest, napping along with the baby and doing a whole lot of nada – I only get a few vacation days every year, after all, and this counts as one of them! But then I realized that the chance to play SAHM may only come around once in a blue moon and I quickly changed course, deciding to be THE BEST STAY AT HOME MOM IN THE HISTORY OF EVER!
A stay at home SUPER mom, if you will. A SAHSM.
I immediately formulated grand plans. Chores will be done. Errands shall be run. We will play with every goddamn toy in this house if we have to fall asleep trying. Perhaps I’ll teach him how to walk by noon, and by the time daddy returns from work, the baby will read to HIM for a change!
If stay at home motherhood was an Olympic sport, I was primed to win the gold.
Ever since I was a little girl, I have loved advice columns. Why reading letters about marital problems, etiquette, and relationships would interest an eight-year-old is a question for another time, but boy did I love reading Dear Abby and Ann Landers dish out their sensitive and savvy guidance every morning before school.
(Sidenote: I also loved Good Housekeeping and Ladies Home Journal, and even had subscriptions! At least I had the self-awareness to be ashamed of this – I remember trying to fabricate some explanation for why the magazines were addressed to me and not my mom when a friend saw them. I needed my Dear Heloise and Can This Marriage Be Saved fix!)
Anyway, I’m not sure why I had a 70 year old woman trapped inside my body in elementary school, but the point is, I got hooked on reading these succinct pleas for help and how logically Abby and Ann could solve any problem. Both Abby’s and Ann’s responses are almost always my favorite type of advice: not patronizing (both of those old bats have no qualms about telling fools when they’re in the wrong) and straight to the point (you deserve better, ditch the loser boyfriend! Your mother is a whacko, mourn your childhood and cut her off! Talk to a trusted adult about your creepy biology teacher!).
At this point, you’re probably thinking “well that’s not so crazy – lots of people like advice columns. Maybe not kids (weirdo), but you’re an adult now. Where’s the crazy?”
I’m getting there.
I would love to be a stay at home mom (I know the cool bloggers shorten that to SAHM, but in my head that sounds like a distinguished Brit shouting the name “Sam,” a pipe dangling from his mouth [which is of course filled with neglected, yellowing chompers]; I simply cannot get that image out of my mind and henceforth must stick with the long version to avoid thinking all my thoughts in a weird/stereotypical/likely offensive Sherlock Holmes-esque accent for the rest of the night).
Unfortunately, that’s not in the cards for our fam at this juncture. I’ve crunched the numbers, and unless we’re willing live in a shack without TV (surely you jest) and forgo every fun little thing like my near-daily fountain Dr. Pepper habit (never!), I am forced to turn the care of my child over to a babysitter every day and hit the salt mines.
“But wait! Don’t you work from home?! That’s almost as good!” say those of you who know me (i.e. all of you since I don’t think anyone but blood relatives is reading this).
The Baby Is Fine 