My babies a-sploded me. I can’t catch my metaphorical breath. The pure love of my two year old. The sweet, squishy happiness of my four month old. Sitting at my kitchen counter sharing a bottle of cab sauv while my babies sleep, my brain keeps cycling back to Boo telling me “I love you, too, mama” after I told him that he is so special to me during tuck in and Little GooGoo excitedly kicking her legs and pumping her arms in her bath water – like joy-ologist style happy. She would only have been happier if I had let her nurse on my nose and it tasted like a cheeseburger.
On the eve of the eve of my first day back to work in 50 weeks, I’m in a good place. I really want to go back to work. I so miss work. I’ve been planning my outfit (tan ankle skinny jeans, with a tunic, blazer, and tan ballet flats), and fantasizing about public transportation and delicious food cart (or cafeteria?) lunches since I got the offer six weeks ago. All of it total stay-at-home-mom porn. Srsly. The job, itself, should be interesting, challenging, balanced. More than I expected I’d find. David is a rock star supporter of what I want, and helping me figure out how to get it.
BUT babies. I feel my heart continue to stutter, and the reason is babies. F the mommy wars and discussion about whether or not we can “HAVE IT ALL.” I think I’m as close to realizing the dream as any non-independently wealthy woman in the world, but at this moment my a-sploding heart might ruin it all. Damn.