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Weeks 27 to 28
Reality Sets In
How the hell am I ever going to do it?
Welcome to my ordinary day: The alarm surprises me at 6 a.m.; I have recently fallen back to sleep, having been awakened a little past 4:00 by Henry’s bad dream, my urge to pee, the subtle change in the light outside my window, my own restlessness. I force myself into the shower and feel instantly better, surrounded by the familiar, fruity smell of conditioner, the soothing, gentle cleaning scrub on my face, and the instant gratification of a quick shave (though not on my legs lately...I can’t reach them, or even see them very well with this belly). Then, wet-haired and alert, I reheat leftover cold coffee in the microwave just to get a quick hit.
The morning chores begin: pack Henry’s lunch for school; unload the dishwasher; figure out breakfast; plan Henry’s dinner and set it aside, ready to cook; dry hair, apply makeup, select an outfit; listen as Henry awakens to his music alarm clock (lately, the Beatles, though sometimes the theme from Star Wars). If only I had gotten out of bed 15 minutes earlier and given myself time to stretch, or meditate, or write, or read the newspaper. Too late. Time to help Henry get dressed, fed, and ready for school. We take the bus uptown together and by 8 a.m., as I hug him goodbye, I pause for a moment to realize I have finished my first of four daily shifts.
Next, a crowded subway ride to the office, where I head up a team of 50 people and juggle a schedule double-booked with staff meetings, client presentations, budget reviews, check-ins, lunches, work-related emergencies... It’s 8:30 a.m. and I have 25 emails to answer. The day is well underway. I try to squeeze in a yoga class, a quick swim, lunch with a friend, or some personal errands before the late-day rush. More often than not, I can’t.
Our babysitter picks Henry up from school and escorts him to whatever play date, class, or activity I have scheduled and confirmed for the afternoon. I do my work. I check in at home, calling at 3:30 so Henry can chat with me about his day.
“When are you coming home, mama?” he asks.
And my standard reply, “Soon,” loses its effect.
“Six o’clock? Or earlier?” he presses.
“Six o’clock,” I promise.
“Five fifty-nine?”
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“I’ll try.”
“I’ll wait to have dinner with you,” he says hopefully. “I’ll try my best.”
I plow through my work and as my inner clock tells me it’s half past five, I stuff what remains undone in my purse amidst the crushed Goldfish, unopened juice box, lipstick, emergency lollipop, cell phone, Treo, iPod, miscellaneous receipts, and drawings Henry has given me to hang on my office wall. Off to the subway and then home with a quick supermarket stop en route; we’re inevitably out of milk, or bread, or some other daily staple, and I have forgotten to ask our sitter to pick it up on her way home. I check my watch: almost 6:00. End, shift #2.
Then, what I’ve been waiting for. My key’s in the door and that little voice screams, “Mama!!!” with utter joy and abandonment. This, I remember, is what it’s all about.
“I was too hungry to wait for you,” he apologizes, and I tell him not to worry. As our sitter leaves, I change into my sweats and run his bath. My PDA buzzes with messages but I vow to ignore them until Henry is asleep. I bathe him, dry his hair, smother him with kisses, and get him ready for bed. After a few books and inevitable cups of water, and after I tell him how special he is, he drifts off to sleep. I have a glass of wine (or lately, fantasize about having a glass of wine) and finish my work.
Jack calls at 8:30 or so, about to leave the office. We decide on dinner, which I (sometimes) prepare from scratch or (typically) heat and serve. At 9:30 we eat and by 10:15, I have fallen apart, wishing I had the energy to read a magazine. I gaze at the TV until sleep overtakes me while Jack washes the dishes and straightens up. There are so many things I should use this time to accomplish: do more work; initiate a phone call to a friend out of state; assemble a photo album; jot thoughts in a journal; try some prenatal exercises; focus on the baby-to-be; make lists; knit; get my head together. I can’t show up for any of it. I am horizontal before I realize I have forgotten to brush my teeth. This, like it or not, ends the third shift.
And so I sleep hard for a few hours, then rouse at the sound of Jack coming in to bed, or Henry’s indecipherable slumber monologues, or my own uneasiness about the day ahead. I call this shift four because I’m still on call: If Henry gets sick, I tend to him. If Jack wants some adult time, I try to be present for that. Or if I am stricken with insomnia, which happens more often than I’ll admit to my doctor, I care for myself. No sooner do I settle than the alarm goes off. Time to begin again.
So where does the baby fit into all of this?
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