Our Day

By the time 2014 appeared on the calendar, people started to notice I was pregnant and with the usual list of questions (when are you due, what are you having, how are you feeling), the additional query I would receive was "are you going back to work?" 

Much like the idea that I would go to college after high school, returning to work was the only option for me. An option I am okay with. Partially. I won't lie and say that leaving my baby was easy. It wasn't and still isn't. Each Tuesday, I take her out of her car seat in her classroom and kiss her a million times before handing her over to one of her wonderful teachers. I walk out the door, looking at my watch, counting how many minutes I'll be late to work and thinking how nice it would have been to let her sleep a bit longer. By Wednesday, I'm okay and on Thursday mornings, I know this is the last day we have to get out the door by 6:25 on the dot.

I'm thankful to have a husband that encouraged me to ask about working a 4 day work week. Thankful that he understood that it meant a pay cut but an increase in the time I get to spend with our baby at home. Luckily, the numbers work out so I'm only losing a very small amount of money each month by working an 80% schedule versus paying for 4 days in daycare instead of 3. And I'll be forever grateful that my mom arrives at our house Friday mornings at 6:00 a.m. and spends 10.5 hours with her third granddaughter.  That makes walking out the door on Friday mornings quite easy.

It is amazing how quickly you settle into a routine. Monday-Thursday evenings, I make three bottles for the next day. I make sure her daycare bag is stocked with diapers, burp cloths and a bib. I fill out her "My Day" sheet before leaving in the morning so I can save an extra 30 seconds at drop off. Thursday evenings I fill up the "Grandma Basket" with diapers, wipes and an outfit to make my mom's life easier. Tuesday-Thursday, I load as much into the car before I put the baby in the car seat so I'm not juggling a car seat and three bags (purse, lunch bag and daycare bag) while stumbling through the garage in heels.

I sit in the driveway and watch the garage door close so I'm not wondering at 10:30 if I shut it. I tell myself every day that I should give our neighbor, a very nice retired older man, the code to our garage on the off chance that I leave in a hurry and forget to shut it.

Once I get to work, I watch the clock and refresh the photo sharing site daycare has set up to show off pictures of our babies throughout the day. When no photos are uploaded, I open my photo stream and gaze at pictures of my daughter from the morning or the night before. My husband requests pictures as well so I text him a couple. Thank goodness for technology. Daycare said to call as often as I want to check on her but the first time I did that (my first day back at work) I was in tears for 10 minutes. I know she is safe. I know she is happy. I trust that.

When the clock strikes quittin' time, I rush out of work, hop into my car and hope for no traffic. I race into the building and scoop up my daughter, showering her with love and affection. I ask the teachers about her day and marvel at the other kids who are just a few months older than mine. I love seeing what she will be doing in just a matter of weeks-sitting up, scooting along, babbling non-stop. I usually get a lovely report that includes a lot of praise about my happy child. My heart soars.

I place her in the car and feel complete again. I glance at her in the mirror and call out her name. She responds by smiling and kicking her feet. Sometimes, she falls asleep during the short drive home. Once inside our house, the million tasks I need to complete race through my mind but the only thing that really matters is spending time with her. I only put her down to change out of my work clothes and she often doesn't escape my arms until my husband comes home and wants his cuddle time.

When she goes to bed, I walk out of her room and my heart hurts. I already miss her face. It might be a matter of minutes before I see her again, trying to calm her as she adjusts to her crib. Or it might not be until the morning, when I sit at the edge of the ottoman in her room, staring at her sweet face as she sleeps on her side, thanking whoever I can for bringing this blessing into my life. What an honor to be her mother. What a joy to watch her grow.

The day begins again. A bit of the same, maybe something different. And even when the monotony of the routine drives me a little crazy, I know that this time, this age, this period is short-lived and doing anything but enjoying it would be a sin.