It’s been a while since I’ve posted about my boys.

(Okay, it’s been a while since I have posted about anything; I get it.)

Growing like weeds, those two. One thing I’ll never get used to is when I take a second glance at them and suddenly it dawns on me just how old they’re getting.

Five and two, already; I can’t even believe it.

A coworker mention just the other day that his son was to be transitioned to the preschool room at the daycare shortly, and quickly I was hit with the realization that Carter starts Grade One in the fall. I know the fall is sometime away considering we’ve just had our first real dumping of winter snow, but people: GRADE ONE.

I have childhood memories of Grade One. I’m pretty certain that most of what I can remember is from that time forward. Very, very few from any time before then, but from that point on, I remember things that happened, people in my life, teachers, friends, even things my parents did.

That terrifies me.

It’s great to have those memories, sure; but what I now worry about is my boys will also likely retain bits and pieces of happenings from these days forward into their adult lives. It will likely be spotty and somewhat hazy, but there will be instances where a random recollection of something we’ve done (or didn’t do) will stick out. I want, more than anything, for those moments to be special ones. My heart aches when I think of their memories being ones of conflict or even me telling them, “Not now”.

It’s inevitable they’ll have some reminiscences of those darker moments, and some may even be important one which will guide them towards the men they will become. But, as most parents do, I want their childhood memories to be those of fun times, trips, playing games, wrestling with each other, and a happy home life.

I want to keep them in a protective bubble; free of parental fighting, tantrum-induced yelling, and time-outs. Memories of night-time cuddles, whispered giggles, sleepovers in the same bed, laughter, and love should be recollections of their childhood, because what child doesn’t deserve that?

Random Posts

• i like it hot!
• “A girl should be two things: classy and fabulous.” – CoCo Chanel
• Eventually It’s All About My Belly. (Okay, so the last part has nothing to do with my belly, but HELLO!)

Since leaving high school and attending post-secondary school at the age of 18, I have, more often than not, been the youngest person in my close knit group of friends. Sometimes by gaps of four years or more. It’s really not been something I spend too much time on until it’s brought up; for example, in conversation or I’m outright asked and the resulting reaction is something along the lines of: Holy shit, you’re only (insert age here)?! But in all honesty, I really don’t care if you’re 2, 5, 8, or 50 years older than me (or younger for that matter. But 50 years younger? That may be a little um, weird) if you’re a friend to me, I am a friend to you.

When I’m feeling overly sensitive (sometimes) and utterly emo (always) I wonder if maybe people think because I am younger my opinions don’t matter or they feel I have nothing to offer to a conversation because my life experiences are assumed to be less than comparable to theirs. I, the completely irrational person I am,  don’t realize that: a) many are likely oblivious to my age and just assume I am older. (Yes, I obviously have an issue with self-esteem. I know this.) or b) they really don’t give a shit about me or my age in the first place. But they should care! Why don’t they care!? No one likes me! WAAAAAAAH! Also? See item a), parentheses 1.

So I’m a little lot self conscious and care far too much what people think of me. I’m working on it. As I have been my entire life.

And as self conscious as I get for being the youngest in the group, I also think, Wait a minute, why are you so shocked that I’m “only” 28? Do I look older? OMG, I LOOK OLD!

It’s really a vicious circle.

Then last week? That circle? It came to a crashing, back breaking halt. Straight into a brick wall of OLD.

In my defense, I spent majority of the week sleeping off some stomach bug I got from the kids. I showered and went to work on the Friday but with little make-up and my hair pinned back: low maintenance. I had to go to our sister company to pick up some project related paper work and while I was there I was chatting with a few of of my former co-workers, one of the guys, whom I used to joke around with a lot, commented, “Holy Sam! Look at you! You look… like a MOM.”

I LOOK LIKE A MOM!?

A MOM?!

Does Mom equal OLD?!

Because I’M NOT OLD!!

One of the ladies turned to face him and informed him “that wasn’t very nice” , while I, in my true colourful form told him he was “such a douchebag.” I wasn’t offended per say, I don’t really offend all that easy, but as I thought about it over the weekend I couldn’t quite pin point what about that comment irked me so much. It’s not like it was a lie, I am a mom. A mom to two beautiful, wonderful little boys. I am a parent. I love having children.

The thought of looking like a mom has me visualizing Mom Jeans, plaid shirts and Keds. I think of women losing their (our) self image and conforming to this uniform and lifestyle that strictly revolves around the children. I think of unkempt hair swept back in pony tails, no make-up and stained clothes. Immediately I felt shame wash over me. Have I fallen so far down the rabbit hole that I give the indication I no longer care about my outward appearance? OMG, I’M A MOM!!!

Yet, I’ve worn that uniform, and I know that’s not a mom. I KNOW. It just happens to be easy and comfortable and realistic most of the time, but it’s not a mom. No outfit, be it from a discount chain store or a high end boutique, makes a mom. A mom is that woman who plays; gets down on the floor with trucks, barbies or what have you.  She takes them to playdates, swimming lessons, doctors appointments and soccer games. A mom makes lunches, dinners, draws a bath a scrubs the dirt and grim from their little fingers. A mom comforts and soothes, loves and adores. Being a mom is NOTHING to be ashamed of, no matter if she works outside the home or in it.

I? Am a mom.

I? Am not ashamed.

I? Am, however, updating my wardrobe.

• Failed
• I Just Want to be Heard
• Hierarchy of Suckage*

I had another post here, which you may have caught in your reader.

I took it down.

Not because it was offensive or low brow, but I felt it was insensitive. I didn’t realize the date before I hit publish.

Today is not about my flourishing 18 month old baby boy, who has had an easy and uneventful go at the world since day one *touch wood*.

Today is instead about those who have not.

Today is about those sweet babies whom were born prematurely and have fought brave, hard and long battles to make our world all the more better.

Today is a day to stand up and help these small tiny children battle against the fight for their lives.

Today we FIGHT.

In An Average Week in the United States*:

10,440 babies are born preterm

1,664 babies are born very preterm

6,769 babies are born low birthweight

1,217 babies are born very low birthweight

• In 2006, there were 542,893 preterm births in the United States, representing 12.8% of live births.

• Between 1996 and 2006, the rate of infants born preterm in the United States increased more than 16%.

• During 2004-2006 (average) in the United States, preterm birth rates were highest for women ages 40 and older (16.8%), followed by women under age 20(14.7%), ages 30-39 (12.7%) and ages 20-29  (12.1%).

• During 2004-2006 (average) in the United States, preterm birth rates were highest for black infants (18.3%), followed by Native Americans (14.1%), Hispanics (12.1%), whites (11.6%) and Asians (10.7%).

• In 2005, the annual societal economic cost (medical, educational, and lost productivity) associated with preterm birth in the United States was at least $26.2 billion.

Learn. Do. Give.

For them.

• Gutted
• I Don’t Normally Ask for Help, But PLEASE! HELP!
• Child Poverty

I’m treading on thin ice these days. My life seems to be crumbling around me at an increasingly alarming rate and I can’t seem to stop the pieces as they tumble to the ground.

When I began this site, I made a decision not to talk about my career at length. I’ve talked about what I do but not to an extent that I go on about co-workers or job sites. I just thought of it to be mundane and uninteresting to those who are not in the field of mud and big machinery. I’ve tried to keep a clear distinction between my career and my life for the purpose of this site.

But more and more my work has been consuming me and who I am. The struggle of the work-life balance has been very trying for me, especially after returning after having two children. I haven’t denied that it’s been hard. I’ve lashed out and acted irrationally and as much as I’ve tried to keep these worlds apart, they are colliding.

Where is this coming from? I was brought into my boss’ office yesterday to discuss my performance over the past three months; or my lack of performance I should say.

My ability to manage a balance between my home life and my work has been severely lacking since I returned back in May. I know that it’s been bad. I know that it’s not normal and I know that it’s not acceptable. I’ve had a total of 15 days off already. Not only have I been having an increased amount of time off, I’ve also been considerably outperformed by my fellow co-workers.

In the past three months I’ve struggled with my return to work, I’ve bought a house and moved, traveled to Chicago, had two sick children whom have had to stay home for daycare about 10 times, I’ve been tormented with thoughts of inappropriate touching and concerns of my husband, once again, losing his job since construction is at a virtual stand-still at the moment.

I’ve been with this company for 8 years. Fresh out of college, this was and continues to be the only career I’ve known to pay my bills, provide me with essentials and my luxuries. Before I had children I was completely dedicated to my job. I would work 80 hours a week, no question. I would stand outside in -30 degrees Celsius (-22F) for hours upon hours without a word or complaint. I’ve tried to be a good employee – no a great employee – but I’ve been slipping down this slope of choosing my family over work. I’m now in a position where I am finding myself nearing the bottom. As I look up to where I was, I realize it’s a long hard trip to get back to there, that’s if I ever can. I think by this point I’ve been written off as more of a hindrance than the asset I believe I was once was.

I feel hurt, frustrated, sad, worried – seriously worried – and most of all: embarrassed.

Embarrassed that it’s come to this. Embarrassed that I’ve failed my job, my co-workers and my boss.

Then I feel angry. Angry that out of the eight years I’ve been there I’ve had a hard three months. I am angry that the past three months of shitty work have completely discounted the work I’ve done prior to this. I haven’t had a performance review or a personal development plan since I’ve been back. I’ve been left to my own devices to find myself work and keep myself busy. I know, imagine that. I’m expected to fend for myself. *gasp* But I just haven’t found my groove. I haven’t been able to get back into the flow where I once was. I feel pushed out, overlooked, unimportant.

Have I told my boss this? Nope. Because even as I read it back to myself, it sounds like a big sappy bucket of excuses; like I am not willing to own up to the fact that I’ve sucked but instead I would be providing excuses for my sucktitude and trying to weasel my way back into his good graces by way of pity.

That’s not me.

So now? Now I tread like my life depends on it.

Because it does.

• I’ve Hit a Wall, or a Quarter-Life Crisis
• Rejection, Dejection.
• On Wanting It All

I hate age four.

We’re technically not there yet, so I hate age 3.8333333333…

We’ve reached the crossroads between independence and needing mommy for everything and it ain’t pretty people.

As of late, everything has been a fight. Questions and defiance all the time. It’s almost as if he’s mocking my authority, because seriously? Killing me.

This morning for instance: Carter kept insisting that today was Thursday not Wednesday. As much as I’d like him to be correct, he wasn’t. I attempted to tell him that today was in fact Wednesday, not Thursday to which he continued to insist that today was THURSDAY as if that would make it THURSDAY. I tried valiantly to ignore the constant But today’s Thursday Mommy. It’s Thursday, not Wednesday. Mommy, it’s Thursday right? Today’s Thursday.

Then tears started (his not mine -yet) and I gave up. I just let him go on believing that today is Thursday.

Choose your battles people, and choose them WISELY.

I never thought I would be a spanker, a yell-er or so frustrated with a child. I think I’m a relatively patient person, but this kid? Carter’s trying every ounce of control I have. Time outs are futile. He’ll sit there talking and fidgeting; I start the clock over each time until he sits there quietly and waits out his punishment but he’s sometimes so disobedient and difficult to the point where I end up yelling. He cries, I yell and everyone’s just pissed off at the world.

I’ve become That Yelly Mom.

You know That Yelly Mom. The one that can be heard from the road screaming at her kids while all the windows are open? The one that you wrinkle your nose at and think “She doesn’t need to talk to her kids like that,” or “Holy shit lady. Calm down.” Okay, so maybe not to that extent, but yes. That’s me.

I hate it.

I despise it.

Before I realize that I’ve done it, it’s too late.

I ask and ask  and then yell when he doesn’t listen; and before I realize that I’ve turned into That Parent I never wanted to be.

There has been no spanking to-date; I’ve resisted the urge so many times resorting to taking away privileges, time outs or early bed. Sometimes they work and sometimes it all just seems like a wasted effort.

So then I yell.

I know it’s a normal stage of development for a child to find and exert their independence, but it’s a stage that I am finding I don’t handle very well. With the combined whining from Hudson, who is also at a stage where he’s developing some semblance of independence, my patience are at an all time low. The stock I once had in my ability to parent effectively is about as deflated as the US housing market.

I just don’t know how to get through the next 12 months without having a constant and unforgiving battle of wills with a four year old child and not be admitted into a 12-step program in the end.

• Stepping up my game
• Failed
• Hierarchy of Suckage*

Editor’s Note:

I think one of the points I tried to make with my post was that I AM doing both. Right now. I am a WAHM as well as a WOHM. I pretty much lead a double life and in my personal opinion, staying home is EASY compared to the work world and that they’re NOT the same. I do not negate at all that they are both hard. I KNOW THEY’RE HARD. But they’re NOT the same.

The ‘real’ part came from Daphne’s comment about how we don’t have ‘real’ jobs. But to be honest – if it pays the bills: it’s a job. We all know that. I wasn’t clear about my use of the word ‘real’ and I’m sorry for that.

:::

So I typically stay away from the Momversation videos because I get so riled up about things they talk about. I know that’s their goal, but I just get so frustrated and angry about them I have to stop watching; but the other day Miss Zoot made a pointed entry about a recent Momversation episode that got my Working Mom panties all bunched up. Kim’s post had me cheering, nodding, and agreeing with every point she made. Go read it – I’ll wait.

See?

Have you watched the Momversation about being a “working mom”? Go.

Working moms. I scoff at the Internet’s idea of a working mom. Sorry Internets, but I do.

I have been a working mom for the better part of three years; and by working I mean dragging my ass out of bed at 4:45am to get showered and dressed, waking my child(ren), getting breakfast going, dropping off at daycare and sitting in traffic ALL to get to the office by 7:30am.

I work through an eight and a half hour day of telephone calls, emails, meetings, reports, proposals, arguments, disagreements while someone with a higher authority, a boss, dictates my time.

After those eight and a half hours, I get in my car to sit in traffic, pick up my kids at daycare, get dinner going, oversee bath time, read stories and put my children to bed.

I see my children for a total of – at the MOST – three hours a day – and most of that time is spent doing chores like the cooking and bathing. I very rarely have the luxury of sitting down and actually interacting with them.

Let’s talk about being a REAL working mom shall we? Not this fluff about working from home because I’ve been there too. I’ve too worked from home, designing, freelance writing, and trying to manage my house at the same time. I was doing what I could to keep us afloat while home with my children.

There is no comparison. None. I don’t care how high up on the blogging ladder you are: working from home is not even in the same realm as being a Working Mother.

Sure, it’s stressful trying to have that conference call when your child is begging for you to change the channel or get them a drink. It’s stressful for the others on the call too. Trust me. I know. I know it’s tough to pump out that overdue article when your child has a fever and just wants to be held. I. Know.

But!

I would take that “stress” over the possibility of losing my job because the kids have been sick and after first three weeks back to work I have already taken about a week of that in sick days. I’d take that loud and boisterous child in a middle of a conference call over being hauled into the boss’ office to be told that ‘I am not carrying my weight around here’ and reminded that times are tough at the moment and it’s important to learn to BALANCE MY HOME AND WORK LIFE.

Balancing work life and home life while working from home? It’s a fuckin’ joke.

There. I said it.

Daphne even acknowledged the fact that the Momversation was “not talking about ‘real’ work.” Maggie said that she’s “not cut out for that” (meaning the working, daycare, rushed lifestyle). Momversation wasn’t talking about the real stresses of being a WORKING MOM, but why the fuck not? Please don’t elude to the idea of discussing the stresses of being a working mom while only talking those whom are at home, locked away in a room while the kids fend for themselves while mommy makes her video.

I applaud you ladies for showering and putting on make-up to stage your videos for Momversation, I know how hard that can be too – to just have a moment to yourself to shower; but please, don’t for a minute think I feel bad for you.

I know it’s tough to find someone to take care of your child while you escape to Starbucks with your MacBook to get that article done or complete the finishing touches on a design for a client. I KNOW.

But, do you “Working Moms” know how hard it is to fight with your spouse about whose turn it is to stay home from work to mind a sick child? Do you know how hard it is to get a call from the daycare centre in the middle of your first day back in the office and have to tell the boss that you’re leaving? Or how about when you have to leave your premature baby in the hospital to go back to work then rush back to the hospital to spend as much time with them as you possibly can? Not to mention dropping off your 11 month old at the daycare centre knowing that the teachers there will likely witness your child’s first steps before you do.

I know I may alienate some of my work-at home-mom friends by writing this, but those that are truly my friends will understand where I am coming from. I know it’s not easy being a mom. I know it’s not easy working from home. I know it’s not easy having a job that takes us from our family, but please, let’s not pretend that they’re the same thing.

• On Wanting It All
• We Are All Jon & Kate
• Marriage is a Funny Thing

Being back to work full time is busy people. Busy with a capital fuckin’ B.

Not only have I been busting my butt trying not to get in trouble again for not carrying my own weight (still hurt by that, by the way), I am slowing becoming aware of how much I’ve taken on and how it’s affecting my family and health (Hello Benylin? I LOVE YOU LIKE A FAT KID LOVES CAKE.).

Both kids went for a sleep over at their grammie and gramps’ house Saturday night. Mike and I had big plans for a night out on the town.

Okay, so dinner out was the only plan but whatever.

We went out for dinner together and then promptly home to get our sweats on and crash on the couch. Flicking through the channels, staring at the screen as each scene went by, blurring into one show. I could feel the fatigue taking over, I finally gave up and headed to bed. 10pm on a Saturday night when both my kids were away. Fuck, I’m old.

Lame Saturday night, yes. But! Seriously? Nothing compares to waking at noon for the first time in five years. Not only did I get to sleep in, but it was peaceful, restful, and rejuvenating. Exactly what I needed. All these late nights plugging away on The Business (which, by the way will be totally remodeled and renamed in the near future! Stay tuned!) accompanied by the early mornings (5am y’all! I detest 5am) has wreaked havoc on my sanity.

And apparently I didn’t have enough stress in my life at the moment because now I’ve decided to add house hunting to the list.

You heard it right. We’re now on the market for purchasing our very first home and I couldn’t be more excited, stressed, overwhelmed and anxious about it all. I think I’ve become very picky about what I want (I blame HGTV) and MUST have in my new house. Needless to say, I believe it’s going to be a long process.

A very long process.

Because…

I’ve decided I want a pool.

I NEED a pool.

I MUST HAVE a pool.

Not too far fetched, but definitely narrows the searches.

Today one of the first homes we saw had 3+1 bedrooms (another must have for visiting family and friends as well as office space for The Business) and a pool. Gorgeously redone and very modern, it was The House, but had already three offers and one accepted conditionally upon financing. Sold as far as I’m concerned. Totally unfair, but this is what I’ve welcomed into my life. Stress, stress and more stress.

We haven’t even gotten close to the bidding, counter offering, and BIDDING WARS.

I think my hair will either be a few shades of white and grey or completely fallen out by that time.

But dammit. I better have a pool.

Though, if I don’t have a pool, I suppose I could get my new pool boy working on something else…..

His tan people! His TAN on his bare bum.

UPDATED:

The pool gods hate me.

Mike was laid off this morning.

Kissing my new house goodbye…..

Fucksakes.

• Half.
• Pants Optional
• Greet the dawn, you know, without killing someone….

Yesterday was my first day back to work. Back to life as a working mom, and by the look of my twitter stream at 5:42am? You could tell I was very excited about it.

Did I mention by this point I’d already showered and made my coffee?

Yay.

I can tell you this: I don’t think I’ve ever been that happy to have twitter because as I documented each step of my morning it gave me some comfort knowing that you all knew I was suffering through straightening my hair, applying my make-up and trying to carefully avoid waking my kids.

And as soon as Micheal McDonald came on the radio I knew I was in for a great day. The universe was certainly mocking my ambition to be an organized! and efficient! working mother of two young children all while appearing as though I have my shit together. Clearly.

Takin It To The Streets – Michael McDonald

Eventually ready, I then had to  fight two small children to wake up. Had it not been the ass crack of dawn I may have taken more pleasure in the fact that I was forcing my children from their peaceful slumber into the chilly darkened beginning of the day. I think Carter may have actually cursed me as his eyes rolled around inside his head as he tried to grasp the idea of being energetically woken up by his mother who is NOT a morning person.

I thought I would have surely taken more pleasure in being the one to turn on the light and announce it’s time to GET! UP!.

Only a mere fifteen minutes behind schedule we were out the door and at the daycare centre where not one tear was shed at drop off – by either kid or myself.

Awesome.

That’s to be read bottom up, so you know.

I arrived on time, barely. Made it through my first morning alright; a little disoriented but  I think that’s to be expected after a year of wiping ass and not much else.

But once the afternoon hit, things changed. I think it was 12:00pm on the dot when the call from daycare came that Hudson had spiked a fever of 102F and by ministry policy had to be taken home and remain there for 24 hours AFTER the fever breaks. So, not only has my boss graciously given me Tuesdays and Thursdays off for the first two weeks of my return due to daycare placement issues for Carter, but now has an employee which has left due to an ill child on her First. Day. Back. NIICE.

Hudson was rather listless when I got to the centre. He was exhausted, congested and feverish – which TOTALLY killed me with Mommy Guilt; but after a brief doctors visit we were certain it was just a regular virus and he’d be back to normal after a little rest.

I really hope this isn’t indicative of what’s to come because I can be certain that if it came down to it, in this economy, I could potentially be one of the first to pack my boxes and head for my spot in the unemployment line with my sick child on my hip.

And though that would be completely alright with me. It’s totally NOT awesome.

• Fixture
• Clinging
• Hierarchy of Suckage*

I love holidays. I love everything about celebrating someones birthday, Easter egg hunts, St. Patrick’s Day, Thanksgiving with family, CHRISTMAS!!, Father’s Day, Mother’s Day, the list goes on.

Mike, however does not. At all.

It’s beginning to wear on me.

Growing up I remember the morning of my birthday I would be greeted by both my mom and my brother singing Happy Birthday with a gift in hand before we would head off to school. I had modest birthday parties, but there was always a party. My dad and step-mom still, to this day make a big deal of celebrating  just about everything. It keeps this fresh, alive and fun!

There was always a celebration growing up; and now there’s not so much.

Mike is very much the “it’s just another day”-type. Holidays are commercial conspiracies concocted to steal away our hard earned money.

Which I don’t disagree with, but why be so cynical about it? Why not enjoy it and play along? Life is just too cold and hard as it is, what’s the harm in indulging and having a little fun once and a while? Take a break from the realist cold attitude and play along for once.

In the eight nine (holy shit! NINE YEARS.) we’ve been together only once has Mike gotten me a birthday gift, but it wasn’t by his own doing. A friend practically bought it and made him give it to me. Instead my typical birthday has included: a HUGE blowup fight (’02), being ignored (’03), forgotten (’06), and him being out-of-town for work (’07). NIICE.

It’s not that I need to have some sort of acknowledgment on “my days” because I don’t. To me, it’s more of a celebration of life and being with loved ones. Maybe a heartfelt “Happy Birthday! I love you!” in lieu of the out-of-obligation hug and peck with a mumbled “happybirthday” as he’s walking away – THAT’S IF HE EVEN REMEMBERS.

Which, by the way – my 28th birthday is Saturday. Don’t worry, I’ll remind you again.

When I had children, Mother’s Day became even more important to me because Hello! I’m a MOM! I have children! which was a token day to you know, TAKE ADVANTAGE of being fawned over and cared for.

No. I don’t NEED it. I want it. I deserve it.

After all, I birthed two nine pound children after painful months of carrying and GROWING  human beings it’s really the least one could do.

When I mentioned Mother’s Day “in passing” (totally fishing for deets) Mike mentioned that he hadn’t planned anything because I’m not his mother.

Not his mother.

Apparently being the mother of his children counts for a diddly squat.

Whatever.

So this morning I was awaken as any typical day, hungry baby thrust in my face and told to get up because he can’t figure out how to make a bottle for the poor kid. Hudson’s fever has gone down but now we are fighting massive congestion and the shits. Awesome.

As I dragged ass to the kitchen to make my own coffee. For the love of Pete! There isn’t even coffee made!? Carter came into the kitchen with his Wii steering wheel gripped firmly in both fists. He leaned into me and whisper / mumbled “Mudder’s day is a home day” and ran back into the living room.

Mike walked up to me and pecked me on the lips and mumbled the obligatory “happymothersday” as he walked back to his game of WoW (World of Warcarft).

I’ve now begun to detest holidays as they’ve continually given me The Royal fuckyouverymuch. Dear Holidays, why must you mock me so?

• Marriage is a Funny Thing
• Familiarity of Family
• Defection

So ya. Monday.

I return to work.

Full-time.

Outside of the house.

I have to go to work.

Work.

Typing it even gives me a sense of loss.

When I left back in April of 2008 I was sure of my return. I knew I was going back, afterall it’s what I do. I always knew I would be a working mom; my mom worked, my aunts worked, very few people I know have children and stay home with them.

After Carter was born and we had a year together, I was ready to get back. I was excited about leaving the house daily, getting dressed, showering and dropping him off at the daycare so he could have his time away from mom. I will have my time.

I’m finding it incredibly difficult to be as excited as I was before.

Honestly, I’m finding it difficult to be excited at all.

I know there is a potential to be Dooced for writing about work in such a way, but my employer, should he happen upon my site, is very understanding and knows that I take my job seriously. Because I have these feelings doesn’t make me any less of a great employee. These are natural feelings which every mother whom returns to work feels some time or another.

Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

So Monday morning, I will be woken up by the shrill, cold blare of my alarm clock before the sun. I will pad across the cool wooden floor in the dark, shower and dress shrouded in silence hoping not to wake the kids too early.

I will pack them both into the car and drop each off in their respective classrooms at the daycare centre. I will then make my way to the office. I will carry my boxes to my desk and unpack this alternate version of my life.

All while I’ve left my heart in a centre a few miles away with my two boys.

Hudson has yet to take his first steps. I will likely miss them while I converse with co-workers, type out invoices and field client questions. He will cuddle into another persons’ shoulder as he gets sleepy after his bottle and be picked up from his nap into awaiting arms which are not mine. Someone else will kiss his boo-boos, feed him lunch and make him laugh.

I will pick them up from they daycare having missed these things day in and day out.

This is what I do.

• Clinging
• Hierarchy of Suckage*
• Working My Way Towards The Unemployment Line, One Sick Kid At a Time