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It’s been 2 weeks since I returned to work, leaving my Nibbles a strictly regulated and miserably scanty stash of expressed milk for survival. Nibbles, now accustomed to weeks of feeding experimentation, has adjusted fabulously – which is certainly more than I can say for myself. I know I should be relieved that he copes just as well without his bovine parent around, but all I can feel is jealous and dispensible.

Given my desperate need to feel needed, I looked for the red carpet welcome leading to my cubicle at work, where complex, temperamental systems were waiting to be tamed. *poof* went that thought, for I would’ve walked through the floor completely unnoticed, if it weren’t for the shiny box of chocolates I carried to the printer. Apparently, motherhood only solidifies my fungal classification in the corporate ecosystem.

A bitch slapped (is that hyphenated?) ego cannot do much besides wallow in self-pity.  And self-pity leads to the overdiagnosed existential angst, followed by a predictable meltdown sequence:
– What is the point of a loveless job that requires too much mental conditioning to seem exciting?
– Maybe it would be easier to love it if I didn’t suck so much at it. But if I do suck, then I can’t possibly contribute anything meaningful to life, the universe or anything, so what’s the point?
– The point??? What makes my lazy pseudo-feminist ass think I can absolve myself of the responsibility of bringing home the bacon daal-chaawal and instead, watch “The Most Smartest Model” reruns while pretending to ponder the meaning of life?
– Lazy? Hello?!? An endless cycle of BFeeding and diapering is the most physical work I’ve done in ages. Can there be anything more exhausting and rewarding than personally nurturing one’s baby?
– Who am I kidding? My patience does not last beyond 5 iterations of Old Mac Donald and his farm of noisy animals, and Nibbles certainly does not need a mommy who reduces the precious time spent BFeeding to her time to “stare at the empty white walls and do nothing”.

Several chocolate truffles, unswept floors and missed pumping schedules later, I’m still not sure which mommy-war camp I belong in. What mommy wars? It’s a losing battle either way. And yet, one has to pick a side and fight. Not against other mommies, but against the maddening voices in one’s head that contradict each other so starkly, and sadly, never mesh into a comfortable grey.  

I suppose I should really follow my heart/head/stomach/anatomical guide of choice. But tonight, I’m too tired/scared/indecisive/blah, so I’ll hit snooze again.

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