Bless Me Father, For I Have Sinned...  

...This is my first confession.

I am a working mom. And I hate it.

The alarm goes off at 7:30 each morning. Sometimes, it my actual alarm clock. Other times, it's Ducky scratching at the door to go downstairs. Usually, it's "G" in her room, ready for the day. Every once in a while, it's the crazy Asian guy next door mowing his lawn... and usually half of mine.

The morning starts with a flurry of activity. Nurse the baby, change the baby, pick out clothes for the baby, feed the baby, play with the baby, get the baby's lunch ready for the sitter. Walk Ducky, feed Ducky. Empty the dishwasher, reload the dishwasher, try to make the house look presentable so our God-send of a sitter doesn't feel obliged to clean it. Feed myself, get my lunch ready, brush my teeth, change into work clothes, put on make up. Sometimes I remember to brush my hair. Sometimes I don't. I'm a working mom. It's my excuse, my crutch.

9am, the sitter arrives. I go over the basics of the day-- fruit for lunch, yogurt for late afternoon snack. DH will be home around (insert time here). Hand over my sweet G to a woman who nine months ago was a complete stranger to us. Walk out the door, leaving the best part of my world behind.

Did I mention I hate being a working mom?

By the time I get to work, I've usually had at least one "therapy" session. It either entails a chat on the phone with my mom (hands free people, thank you BlueTooth!) or a trip to the chiropractor (you see, I did this crazy thing to my neck while nursing G in December that just never went away... and got even worse when I fell down a flight of stairs at work). You'd need therapy, too, if you had my job.

Deadline #1: endure the endless morning meeting, where we cover the same topic at least five times. Check.

(Brief pause-- here is where I am contractually obligated to say that the views expressed in this blog are not the views of my employer... which will remain nameless, other than "the station"... but still, a contract is a contract.)

Deadline #2: stack a local TV newscast that goes largely unwatched by the majority of the viewing public, thanks to online sites and Jon Stewart. Check.

Deadline #3: write every story the anchors will read during an hour broadcast-- stories that I will get no credit for, because most of the folks at home think the anchors write all their material (insert sartorial laughter here). Check.

Deadline #4: 5pm, the magic hour. Laugh along with my great coworkers when things go well. Scream like bloody murder when they don't. Give all the credit or blame to myself, either way. Did I mention I'm egotistical too? Check.

Deadline #5: navigate my way back home, through the streets of a mid-sized Southern town. Holler at drivers who believe the right hand lane is where they should do all their driving, who don't think they should ever move over and allow people to merge. I'm seriously surprised I haven't been killed yet, or at least been in an accident. Check.

6:15pm (or thereabouts)-- finally home. If DH is working, I'll get about 15 minutes to "debrief" him on my day before he leaves for work. We *maybe* see each other two nights a week. So is the life of an mid-level law enforcement officer. "Love yous" are replaced by "be safes", an homage to the risky career my husband has chosen for himself, for us. It's not ideal. It's far from the life we were supposed to have-- back before a devastating knee/foot injury sidelined him during his senior year of D1 college football, took away his starting position at left tackle, and our dreams of a career in the NFL. But would we be here, with our amazing daughter, if that had actually happened? Probably not. So it's a blessing in disguise.

I get about 60 minutes each night to play with G before she starts getting cranky, and is obviously ready for bed. She is soooo good at telling me when she's had enough. First, it's the legs that were so sure of themselves earlier in the evening, turning wobbly. Then, it's the eye rubs. And finally, the first whines of exhaustion. If she's not in the bathtub by then, it's sure to be a rough night. I slather her with baby lotion (I've put Cetaphil cream on her face since she was three weeks old, she may have the softest baby skin on the planet), rub her bottom with Desitin (wow, my first blog, and already product placement for two companies! I should be getting paid for this), put on her pjs, and begin nursing her to sleep. It's my favorite part of the day.

About 15 minutes later, and she is typically out like a light. This kid loves to sleep, often at 11 or 12 hour stretches a night (since about six months old, I'm not that lucky!). Once she's asleep, I head downstairs and try to knock out a couple chores before my own bedtime-- clean a bathroom or two, wipe down the kitchen, dust, put the baby and dog toys away. A mom's work is never done.

But then again, whether you're at the office, at home, or even at the park, being a mom is a full-time job (even if it's not your only one). Just like any job, there are a lot of downsides; stress, frustration, anger, sometimes fear-- am I doing enough? is she going to be ok? what does the future hold? But the upsides, oooooh, the upsides; those sweet kisses before bedtime, the way she reaches for me when I get home from work, the smiles whenver I catch her eye, her infectious laughter at silly sounds and tickles. It's the best job I've ever had.

Did I mention I love being a working mom?