On listening

Up until about two weeks before my maternity leave with Gunnar ended, the plan was for me to be a stay-at-home mom. Brian had just started a new career and the math looked good. Without emotional or financial reservation, my husband supported whatever I wanted to do.

After months of counting down and imagining my new life, I planned the customary Mommy and Baby visit to the office, after which I planned to give my notice. I packed up my 10-week-old son, about 40 burp cloths, and enough formula to last a typical infant for about two weeks in the Sudan.

As with most outings during that period, I was anxious. Besides sleep, the only cure for Gunny's screaming was another bottle, which, if given too soon (it was never too soon, according to him), would result in projectile vomiting followed by more wails and demands for food. I was really hoping to avoid this cycle at the office, and recall putting a lot of energy into hushing and bouncing and humming while trying to chat with coworkers and show off my new little bundle of ... well ...

The baby was completely out of patience with the meet and greet in less than an hour, and my only recourse was to get him back in the car and pray the motion of the ride lulled him to sleep. As I drove home in silence--yet still hearing faint phantom cries that I could hardly discern from the real ones--I admitted to myself that I was dying to go back to work.

As I talked it over with Brian, he reiterated that he fully supported me either way, but with a warning: "Don't go back just because you think you can't handle the baby. You are a great mom and it will get easier."

Even though Brian struggled to get the hang of parenthood almost as much as I did, he couldn't have been more right in his prediction.

At the time--two and a half years and an additional child ago--I was dying to just feel competent at something, even if it was just answering a phone or an email. Hell, if I really didn't want to deal with something at the moment, I could let voice mail get it and see if the problem resolved itself. For 24 hours a week (I returned part-time), I wore clean clothes, sat in a chair, made decisions that had no long-term effects on a tiny person's physical and emotional well-being.

My daycare provider was an experienced, confident, reassuring partner I desperately needed at the time. And my son made friends and learned words and skills and generally thrived having a bit of his own life away from home, even as a baby.

Fast-forward to today. I have two beautiful toddlers and, even at their worst moments, I know how to handle them. I have the privilege of getting to play SAHM four days a week, but because of outside commitments and deadlines and the resulting exhaustion, I'm still not the together, cookie-baking mom I wish I could be. With a little more time, I tell myself, I'd get that crock pot out of the basement and learn to use it. I'd get that pretty clock we bought when I was pregnant finally hung on Annie's bedroom wall. I'd keep them on the same schedule every day. I wouldn't have to endure missing them all day and then dealing with the evening meltdowns they display as their way of telling me they missed me too.

But circumstances have changed since my days as an overwhelmed new mom, namely the economy and the economy. Regardless of the ways I've grown, right now I've got to do my best to succeed as a semi-SAHM--one who fishes for matching socks out of the dryer (and sometimes the hamper...okay, off the floor) at the last minute, who buys her "fresh-baked" cookies, and occasionally relies on DVDs to help her meet a deadline.

Despite all this, even after I reluctantly zip up the kids' little coats and drop them off for the day, I know I'm lucky to have some of these things to complain about. But I do wish that I'd listened to Brian's prophetic words back then. Or missed the message completely. Then I might not be hearing it in my head over and over, day after day.