I’ve missed you. There I said it. If spelling it out makes me more vulnerable, so be it. Tonight, I cannot hide the way I feel about you.
The Corporate Whore, alias The CoHo, was thrilled to be back on the streets – her Wall Street. Even the squishy-squashiness of the PATH commute did not crush the passion she had for the city – her City. Stuck between expensive, friday-crumpled suits on the Century 21 intersection, a twenty-something elbowed her. “She’s waaay too chunky to be wearing those boots in New York. Atlanta? Perhaps. But New York? Pah!”, The Coho sneered, as she adjusted her maternity work pants.
The deafening din of Ground Zero construction was interrupted by a fire engine siren. The CoHo turned to catch a glimpse of New York’s Bravest and scanned the descending, greasy heroes for the oft-mentioned sexiness they exude. “Nice pants”, she decided and trudged along.
Zigzagging through the crowds, The Coho lugged those last 10 pregnancy pounds around as fast as she could. Would she make it on time? Aaah yes. There it was. The last buttered roll wedged between the shelves of the coffee dude’s cart. “Small coffe, milk n’ sugar + a buttered roll please”, she panted. Coffee dude discreetly tossed in several spoonfuls of sugar into The Coho’s coffee and quipped, “How’s the baby miss?”. The Coho was stunned silly. How did coffee dude remember? It had been ages since she’d stopped by. Why, it had been almost..uh…”Baby’s almost 6 months, yeah?”…almost 6 months. Wow! The Coho was immensely impressed, proud, flabbergasted and freaked out as she sipped her morning drug of choice muttering, “Umm…thanks. Keep the change”.
As the caffeine breathed life into her veins, The Coho programmatically zoned out and drifted into The Office. She flashed her badge, admitted her bar-coded person into the premises and surrendered herself to the will of her cubicle.
It’s official. I’m a hopeless blogaholic. That would explain the silly jig I did when Ceekay tagged me – my very first tag – w00t! Except that I’ve already taken to procrastinating, so must chop chop:
My right boob is on strike. Seriously! She absolutely refuses to cough up milk for poor Nibbles, except for a tease once in a while. Could this be because I spend a disproportionately large amount of time typing with my right hand while Nibbles nurses on the left? Aaaargh! Just when I thought I could finally start enjoying the whole breastfeeding experience. “Natural, bonding experience for mother and child”? What rot! That’s exactly the kind of expectation that makes a new mom feel inadequate, worthless and pathetic – as if there aren’t enough triggers for a breakdown anyway.
I visited my pregnant pal the other day. There she was, rubbing her taut, stretchmarkless belly, as I forced my boob into a squirming Nibbles.
She: “I can’t wait to feed my baby!” *sigh*
NP: “Wha…? So you plan to breastfeed, eh?”
She: (enthusiastically) “Oh yes”
NP: “Hmmm…cool. Cool. uh, just remember, it’s not supposed to hurt, ok?”
She: “I know that. It’s the most natural thing in the world – a mother feeding her child”. (stares dreamily into the distance, hand on belly)
NP: (cringes) “Ah yes, yes. I meant, it’s not supposed to hurt – much – but it might, you know? In fact, it will initially, but shouldn’t for much longer after that. You can use some lansinoh cream for the soreness – safe while feeding, right? Right. But if it does hurt for longer than 2 weeks, don’t keep mum and bear it, thinking it’s supposed to, coz that’s bull. Go see a lactation consultant ASAP so they can check the latch, ok? And make sure your kid’s pediatricain supports breastfeeding and doesn’t try to con you out of it – unless you want to stop, of course. Whatever works for you girl. Ah, well, I don’t know what I’m talking ab…Nibbles! Quit wiggling and drink up. What? Already? Ok, let’s try the other side; maybe there’s some milk there? Please? Pleeease?”
She: (stunned at NP’s outburst. NP, who casually shrugged off everything from morning sickness to labor pains) uh, I need to pee.
Dammit. Way too much info. No wonder my mommy friends whispered gravely amongst themselves and never let the truth slip when I was a bubbly, wobbly pregnant dreamer, eager to soak up the joys of mommyhood. I think I’ll distract her with chocolate.
Just when I decided to be brave and go nanny hunting online (“indian nanny nj”), google taunted me with this. Big Byte will think I purposely dug this up as yet another excuse to avoid getting a nanny. And now that I’ve read it, graphic images will infest my mind with putrid paranoia. Somebody shoot me. Now.
Edited: I strongly opposed Big Byte whenever he suggested a nanny cam. It’s invasion of privacy and moreover, leaving someone with your child requires that you forge a healthy relationship with the caregiver, and healthy relationships are based on trust. Bah! Bring on the latest in spycam technology. I want real-time feeds from EVERY room.
It appears as though I may finally heave that sigh of relief that comes from having made a decision, but a sigh nevertheless. I’ve decided to work part-time : 3 days @ work, 1 @ home. Yes, Dream Company did pull through for me. I still lose 33 hours of the week with Nibbles, at least 27 of which he will spend awake, playing and tucking one milestone after another under his lil’ belt. But at least the first thing I do when I get home will not be frantically logging in and catching up with e-mails into wee hours of the night, with Nibbles tucked under my breast even if he’s neither hungry nor awake.
This post is supposed to smell of closure, but I’m so mad at Dream Company for questioning my committment towards my career when I suggested part-time. They had the nerve to suggest, jokingly, that perhaps a career in teaching might suit my situation better. I love teaching, but for some reason I wasn’t laughing my ass off at their kind suggestion. What the fuck is up with having to prove myself a gazillion times over? Starting from proving that a girl does not have to sleep with her teaching assistants to pass her computer science major courses, to proving that a very pregnant woman can pull all-nighters and run (ok, waddle) across the trading floor to rollout a critical application ahead of schedule. And now they question my committment because I want one measly day with my Nibbles??? Fuck this shit!
Ok, so I didn’t say “Fuck this shit”, although that’s exactly what I should’ve said while shoving some mean, green dolla bills down their throats. I swallowed the shards of my pride and gushed appropriately when they okayed my part-time request. Maybe it’s because I didn’t have the balls to disappoint everyone by staying at home. Maybe it’s because I know that my post-partum blues are precariously close to a full blown depression and staying at home is guaranteed to accelerate the process.
It sucks that I’m already not Nibbles’ favorite person. Sucks that I can’t be a happy homemaker and nurture my family. It sucks that I need to be away from my Nibbles to be a better mommy to him. But a gal’s gotta do what a gal’s got to do. Now zippit.