"I work from home."
I feel like this is the punchline to the joke that is my daily routine. It sounds so clean and easy. I get up, I put on some pants, I boot up the laptop, and I get all productive up in here. Right? Tee-hee. No.
I get up, I feed a squalling baby. I go back to bed. I get up, I feed her again, I go back to bed. My husband gets up, gets ready and goes to work. I get up, fetch the now unnaturally happy baby, and together we go downstairs to start our day.
She'll only be awake for about two hours, and it's better if she gets at least one nap at home before daycare (where she is never able to sleep for any appreciable length of time). During those two hours (7am to 9am) I pretend I'm working. What I'm really doing is begging her to stop chewing on the electical chords, trying to climb the stairs, or sucking on the heating vents while I just send this one email! Just one email, baby! One!
But she'll have none of it. If I'm super lucky, she'll play happily for about an hour while I intermitently pull her off the stairs and away from electical outlets. After that hour, though, she's done. She knows what she wants and what she wants is me. Now. Right now. It doesn't matter that I'm RIGHT HERE on the other side of the play gate. It doesn't matter that I'm happily singing her songs while I desperately try to finish a work project. It doesn't matter that every thirty seconds I turn around and play peekaboo with her. No. This is not what she wants. She wants me. Not just the leftovers. Not just what I can spare while I get my work done. She wants the best of me, my full attention, all of me. And as long as I'm sitting right there next to her she'll happily play for another hour until naptime. Just so long as I'm there with her. No necessarily holding her, but available for a good snuggle whenever the mood strikes her.
I guess I'll take it.
I feel like this is the punchline to the joke that is my daily routine. It sounds so clean and easy. I get up, I put on some pants, I boot up the laptop, and I get all productive up in here. Right? Tee-hee. No.
I get up, I feed a squalling baby. I go back to bed. I get up, I feed her again, I go back to bed. My husband gets up, gets ready and goes to work. I get up, fetch the now unnaturally happy baby, and together we go downstairs to start our day.
She'll only be awake for about two hours, and it's better if she gets at least one nap at home before daycare (where she is never able to sleep for any appreciable length of time). During those two hours (7am to 9am) I pretend I'm working. What I'm really doing is begging her to stop chewing on the electical chords, trying to climb the stairs, or sucking on the heating vents while I just send this one email! Just one email, baby! One!
But she'll have none of it. If I'm super lucky, she'll play happily for about an hour while I intermitently pull her off the stairs and away from electical outlets. After that hour, though, she's done. She knows what she wants and what she wants is me. Now. Right now. It doesn't matter that I'm RIGHT HERE on the other side of the play gate. It doesn't matter that I'm happily singing her songs while I desperately try to finish a work project. It doesn't matter that every thirty seconds I turn around and play peekaboo with her. No. This is not what she wants. She wants me. Not just the leftovers. Not just what I can spare while I get my work done. She wants the best of me, my full attention, all of me. And as long as I'm sitting right there next to her she'll happily play for another hour until naptime. Just so long as I'm there with her. No necessarily holding her, but available for a good snuggle whenever the mood strikes her.
I guess I'll take it.
No comments:
Post a Comment