i’m not so sure work is going to work

I got my first post-baby work assignment today. A client I’ve had for years, who contacts me each season to write articles for a quarterly newsletter. Usually about 10-12 hours of work over two weeks, involving several phone calls, a few interviews on the phone and at least one site visit. All of this results in drafts which must be then vetted by the interview subjects, re-edited if needed, and turned in with my invoice.

I don’t think I can do this.

I’m sitting in my office. It’s a small room. Formerly a breakfast room. The walls are a somewhat unfortunate mint-ice-cream green (meant to be a soothing sage, but the color swatch we’d bought wasn’t accurate, apparently). The bear bouncer sits empty on the floor across from my desk (across being only about 20 inches). This morning, the Boo sat in it and batted contentedly at his bears and cooed delightfully while making eyes at me as I checked email and ate breakfast and cooed back between bites.

I am so in love with him. I feel guilty even keeping these two feet between us while I divert my attention away in small spurts.

One wall is made up entirely of 70s-era sliding glass doors, scratched to hell by the previous owner’s renter’s very large dog. A breeze lifts and releases the branches of flowering rosemary, lavender and blue, in the planter outside. The cat chases a bluebird up the hill; returns to sit by the door, lick himself. It’s still sunny at 5 pm. Thank you daylight savings.

The boy is crying. I stop typing…….

My “mother’s helper,” a tall, willowy, 18-year-old girl, is changing my boy in the bathroom. I pop my head in to check. “Is everything okay?”

She’s all tangled in her own arms and the flailing baby feet.

“Yes.”

I come back to my desk, resume typing. She walks in, bouncing boy in one arm. He’s still crying. “I think he’s hungry.” “Did you give him the little snack bottle in the living room?”

She goes off to do that.

She’s been here since 3 p.m. In two hours, I’ve managed to check emails, print out the notes for my work assignment, and get lost in reading another blogger’s birth story (a natural birth — I’m so jealous!).

In these two hours I’ve also nursed the boy, rocked him to sleep twice. Made a cheese and crackers snack. Found my digital recorder; moved the speaker-phone phone into my office. Reasonably cleared off my desk (all papers piled precariously into a column of in-boxes to be dealt with later). Read my assignment notes again.

Must. Start. Working.

Can’t.

Boy is still crying. He wouldn’t take the bottle. Helper is walking him around in the backyard. Look at the pretty flowers.

There’s a lump in my throat. Let her try to work it out. He’ll be okay.

It’s too late to make any work calls now. I could leave messages. But when to tell people to call me back? How will I make an appointment for a phone interview when my time isn’t mine?

The boy has stopped crying. Probably he’ll nap again soon.

But I don’t like this. I don’t like that the teenage girl is taking care of my boy.

Oh, yeah, poor me.

I only know four mom friends who are planning to be “Stay At Home Moms.”

The rest, and this is a much larger number, including the remainder of my moms group, and basically every other babymom I know, are going back to work. Many of them full time.

So I feel like a real brat for resenting this time that I should be working.

The economics of it aren’t great either. Helper costs $10/hour. Writing pays more than that. But it takes several hours of help to get one hour of writing done. I may still come out ahead, but it will be less than I would get if I turned the job down and stayed on Paid Family Leave. Ah, the joys of freelancing.

Everyone says how much they enjoy having time away, interacting with grown-ups, using their brains again.

I know I have my moments, where the feeding and burping and bouncing and changing become so tedious, tiring. Sometimes it’s nice to hand the baby over and go out for a few hours.

But mostly, I like my SAHM life. A lot. I love our yoga classes, and meeting other moms for tea. And even going to our doctor appointments. And making eyes at each other.

Boy is crying again. Stop typing….. feed him.

5:30 p.m. Girl goes home. I hand boy off to husband, return to finish post.

“Honey! Come here!”

I go into the bedroom where baby is on his back in center of the bed. Scott explains how Jonah rolled himself over to his side while on the pillow, then off the pillow onto his belly, then over onto his back — all of this somewhat assisted by the downhill slope created by husband’s weight on the edge of the bed.

The boy’s eyes are wide. He’s proud of himself.

I can’t help but say it.

“Wow, his first roll-over. And I was in the other room.”

“Well, an assisted roll-over,” Scott says.

I return to my desk. I want to finish this post. And I need to take another one of my detox baths. And we both need to meditate. And we need to go to the grocery store tonight. Pick up dinner to-go as well, get the boy down to sleep, watch Survivor.

Maybe I’ll get some work done tomorrow.