And then I became a real working mama.

It sort of happened overnight.  Literally.  I asked a friend if her company was hiring on a Sunday, and the next Monday I was sitting at my new desk.  On the outside it seemed easy, meant to be perhaps.  But on the inside, I was waging a war with myself.

In the week leading up to my employment, I found myself suddenly bursting into tears at the drop of a hat.  There’s something that I’ve never lied to y’all about – staying home with your children is hard.  Like, hard.  There’s never a break, or a sick day.  But there’s something else I won’t lie to y’all about – leaving you children to go to work is hard.  Heartbreaking more accurately describes what I’ve felt.

Deep in my heart, I know that Little T is okay.  He’s with kids near his own age, he’s learning, and he’s absolutely very well taken care of.  But darn my own vanity – I find myself wondering throughout the day if he’s crying for Mama, or if he needs me, or if he loves his teachers more than me.

Never fear, I’m reassured every evening when Little T comes racing through the front door hollering “Mommy!”.  That’s when I know that he loves me just as much as he always has, that he won’t forget that Mama loves him so much, even if she has to leave him at school every day.

There is something that I’ve been struggling with as a new working mom, and it’s something that I feel every working mother has struggled with at some point in her mothering/careering balancing act.  The Schedule.

For the first time in my life, I know what people mean when they say “There just aren’t enough hours in the day”.  You’re not joking, my friend.  There aren’t.  Not even close.  In a perfect world, the day would have just about 37 hours.  The work day would stay the same, but there would be more time for snuggles after work, more thought put into what I’m going to throw together for dinner, more loads of laundry done after the little is tucked away in his Thomas the Train sheets, and a few more chapters to read before I pass out from sheer exhaustion.

Even the weekends don’t offer much solace.  Weekends around here are spent visiting the grandparents, being outside in the nice weather, and cooking steaks and pork chops on the grill with our closest friends.  It’s hard to fit in the not-so-fun things between the fun ones.  Who wants to rush back in the house to sweep and mop in between ice-cold beers in the front yard and watching the little ones splash in the blow up pool?  Not this girl.

So, long story (sorta) short, things are slipping around here.  The laundry doesn’t stay caught up, my floor could definitely use a good scrubbing, and those dishes in the sink aren’t going to do themselves (however much I wish they would).

But there is one thing that’s not slipping, and that’s the love and snuggles that I get to give my little buddy every evening.  I think I’m okay with a dirty floor, as long as there’s a little guy that knows his Mama loves him.

 

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