3 months before my baby was due I had to leave work on disability. I wasn't technically on bed-rest, but I couldn't drive, and I lived in Beaverton so obviously no one was going to come hang out with me. For 3 months I literally did nothing but eat icecream, talk to my dog, and freak the fuck out because somehow I would have to get this human out of my body and take care of it for the rest of my life. After said baby was removed from my stomach I spent 12 weeks the way I imagine most new mothers do: crying tears of joy, then crying tears of despair for no reason, trying on pre-maternity clothes and crying some more when they didn't fit, getting puked on, and the remaining 20 hours a day were spent staring at my sleeping baby in bewilderment. Even though I had 8 remaining weeks of leave, after 6 months away I was READY to go back in June.
For a few months I was Supermom. I was kicking butt at work and wiping butt at home without skipping a beat.
Then our daycare situation changed from in-home to in someone else's home. We embraced the difficult adjustment best we could. A month later, our sweet little baby was asked not to come back to daycare. Apparently his separation anxiety was so severe he spent the entirety of his 10 hour days there screaming at the top of his lungs. No napping, no eating, just screaming, with an occasional break to spit his food out at the daycare provider. This felt like a major blow to my Supermom-ing. It was around this time I decided I needed to take more of my leave. In Oregon you can take the unpaid leave with job protection within 12 months of delivery. It was a surprisingly difficult decision because I really love my job and it bothers me to miss out on the action, but I figured I'd always regret not spending as much time as possible watching my little guy grow into a bigger guy. And this way I could stall a little longer on figuring out day care, maybe until he was old enough not to act like a psychopath.
Then our daycare situation changed from in-home to in someone else's home. We embraced the difficult adjustment best we could. A month later, our sweet little baby was asked not to come back to daycare. Apparently his separation anxiety was so severe he spent the entirety of his 10 hour days there screaming at the top of his lungs. No napping, no eating, just screaming, with an occasional break to spit his food out at the daycare provider. This felt like a major blow to my Supermom-ing. It was around this time I decided I needed to take more of my leave. In Oregon you can take the unpaid leave with job protection within 12 months of delivery. It was a surprisingly difficult decision because I really love my job and it bothers me to miss out on the action, but I figured I'd always regret not spending as much time as possible watching my little guy grow into a bigger guy. And this way I could stall a little longer on figuring out day care, maybe until he was old enough not to act like a psychopath.
So here I am, on leave! I've just completed week 4 of 5 and I thought I'd do a recap of what it's been like so far.
Week 1 - Pressure Cooker
I'd spent the months leading up to my leave wary of taking a break, but after surviving The Holidays, I was grateful for a change of pace. But slowing down suddenly is not an easy thing to do! In the beginning I was manic. In the mornings I was so excited to have time with my child that my eyes welled up with tears of joy every time I looked at him. Then I'd set in frantically composing to-do lists of everything I needed to accomplish. The 30-ish items ranged from as basic as "take dog to vet" to ambitious as "teach baby sign language." I was feeling the pressure! I mean this could be the last time I ever have a 5 week vacation until I retire! In the first three days I organized the basement and every closet, deep cleaned every corner of the house, and got the baby sleeping in his crib for the first time ever (see future post: Mistakes I've Already Made as a Parent). Did I stop to take pride in my accomplishments? No! Still so much to do! Then my body committed mutiny and I was sick with a fever for the first time in probably 5 years. If you think being sick is fun, you should try it with a crawling infant. If you don't have an infant handy, try locking yourself in your room with a pack of rabid Meerkats and see how relaxing that is. That's how we brought in Week 2.
Week 2 - Get me out of here!
Contrary to my utter certainty that death was imminent, I did fully recover from my cold. My symptoms were gone, but some animosity remained. I'm not proud of this, but I was convinced my 10 month old was an asshole. My life had become madness. I spent all day compulsively cleaning a house that my baby spent all day messing up. Books didn't rest long on bookshelves, cords couldn't remain plugged in, unsuspecting leaves were ripped off plants, no drawers remained closed (except to trap little fingers). Not a hair on my head was safe from his grasp, no shirt was stain-free after a meal, my arms and shoulders were covered in scratch and bite marks. I cannot stress enough the dead-on accuracy of the comparison between this baby and a wild animal. This guy was NUTS. I tried to find reprieve by taking the baby out of the house, and that was even worse. He acted the same, but in public, so then not only was I annoyed, I was embarrassed because of how annoyed everyone around us must have been. Every opportunity I had to speak with an adult I blew it talking about what a jerk my baby was. I started to dislike both of us. I needed to get back to work. All I wanted was to wear 5 inch heels with something dry clean only and talk in a grown-up voice. I considered ending my leave immediately. Then I had a breakthrough.
Week 3 - Baby-Proofing
I decided to give escaping the house one last try, packed up my wild animal baby and headed to Target. I strolled through the aisles while my offspring screamed and tried to knock everything off the shelves. We made it out with a baby gate and cabinet locks, and those precious items changed everything. Instead of spending the day dashing from one life-threatening scenario to another, intervening barely in time, the beast was contained and we could finally just enjoy each other's company. Bliss! Also, in Holden's defense I think he was doing some serious teething in the week prior, which explained his "better not try to take me out in public" attitude.
Week 4 - Sabotage
At the beginning of this week I'd found a perfect balance where I was appreciating every moment with my little monster, in a rhythm with my OCD style cleaning, and managing to get out and have fun a few times a week. Balance? Me? Of course just being happy isn't a viable lifestyle option for me, so to avoid reveling in contentedness I've started panicking about the approaching end to it all. My choice activity to exasperate this is googling daycare options while sobbing quietly. I also like to creepily stand in the doorway of whatever room Jake and the baby are in and silently watch them interact as tears roll down my cheeks. In the sport of crying that's referred to as distance-crying. Somehow the part of my brain connected to my tear ducts believes going back to work is akin to my family being deported or some other insurmountable, terminal separation. The more I think "I'm running out of time, I need to just enjoy this," the more difficult it becomes to enjoy it. It's like being up at 3am knowing you need to fall asleep because the clock is ticking, but as you lose time your concern about how little sleep you'll get grows, making sleep more and more elusive.
Week 5 starts tomorrow and hopefully I can title it "Making Peace." While taking a break from writing this very blog entry the baby took his 1st steps. Insert like five million exclamation points. Being present for that was a major motivation in being away from work, and I'm so grateful I was there (along with dad and even grandpa on Face-time). Maybe now I'll be a baby step closer to being okay with things the way they are and the way they will be.
i love it five million exclamation points.
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