Working 9 - 5. It'll Make You Crazy If You Let It...
My first day back at work wasn't too brutal, I must say.
Last night around 11, I cried myself to sleep. That is true. Justin Beck got into bed after spending the whole day and night with Daryl Palumbo (...and not me. I'm not mad or anything, but damn a friend in need is a friend indeed.) He was like, "Is everything okay?" I could hardly get the words out. I was sobbing and sniffling and acting a damn fool. This was after I folded a load of her tiny white clothes, stopping at every item and smelling it like a freak.
After the weirdo laundry session with myself, I packed all her stuff up and put it by the front door like I was totally breaking up with her. I packed my pumping bag and I packed a normal purse without mom shit. So weird. All this, by the door ready to go. Looking at the bags and bags and bags before I ran upstairs to get in pajamas and wash my face (new regimen, by the way, for discussion later), I lost my shit. Crying and essentially retarded.
This morning, I woke up at 8. Technically she woke up at 3:20 am and normally since she is newly capable of sleeping through the night, I let her fuss for the whole ten minutes and she falls back asleep til 6 but I was feeling generous and sad so I went right up in there and nursed her and cuddled and begrudgingly put her back in the crib. At 6 in the morning, she ate again and this time (so bad!) I put her in the bed with me. NOT back in the crib til she wakes up for the day. That's right. I co-slept with my baby for two hours, what's it to you?! Besides, in Japanese culture, they consider the two parents with the baby in between like two protective mountains. I was born in Japan, you know. Whatever, I will not be made to feel guilty for spending two hours in my bed with my baby. Kiss my ass you naysayers.
So at 8, I took a shower. At 8:15 baby girl was looking for moms. Not crying, just lonely and whining and whimpering. She ate again. Me, still damp from the shower in my bathrobe nursing a not that hungry baby. I know, right? And I did not care that she had just eaten a gang of times before this. I was nervous because I heard that breastfed babies will reject all bottle feedings while mom's away and eat minimally, just to survive and then they'll maul your ass when you get home. I was nervous, you see. So I fed her to her heart's content until I had to finish getting ready.
I got ready. She watched me as I put makeup on. She knows the deal. On date night, she watches me as I put makeup on. I dictate each step so that when she's 15 she'll have mastered eyeliner. I am telling you, she is absorbing all this information. I WISH someone had taught me that shit at 15. I didn't learn until I was 23 and I spent all those years prior looking washed out and ugly like Ralph Macchio. Ugh. See there! You read that correctly. At 15, Shalom can wear makeup. Amy Fisher was probably allowed. Not that I aspire for her to be like Amy Fisher and shoot somebody in the face. I'm just saying. It's a Long Island thing. Little girls wear makeup around here. And I'm not having Shalom get clowned in the hallways at high school so that I have to go down there twice a week looking for the mean girls' moms' phone numbers so I could jack folks up. Because I will destroy a mean girl's mom to her face and on the phone, essentially making me a mean girl but no one fucks with Shalom. I will take pleasure. Nothing would please me more actually. I wish a mother fucker would...
So where was I?
Then I got dressed. Put those heels right on, yes I did. Then she got a diaper change and she got dressed. Loaded up in the car seat. I put all the shit from the front door in the car first. Loaded her ass in second and we drove to my mother-in-law's house.
When I was taking her out of the car, I was looking for a smile goodbye. Nope. Shalom wasn't offering up any smiles this morning. She sat silently in the car seat, still like a little statue with a pout on. I was like, "Are you mad at me?" and I swear to G-d, this baby turned her head away from me. I was like, "It's like that, Shalom!" and she sighed like I was boring her.
My father-in-law is not the type to believe me when I say things like "She knows..." He usually naysays me and is like "Oh please." But when I walked in with her, even he was like, "Is she mad at you? What's with the attitude on her face?"
So I skulked back to my car all heartbroken that she wasn't feeling me. I made sure to go heavy heavy on the eyeliner so I'd be less inclined to fuck it up on the drive to work. I had to concentrate hard on not crying.
I get to work. Trudge through some emails. Make some calls. Blah blah blah. Do some Kelis style bossin' and by noon, I have not even checked up on my baby. Making a conscious effort to take pride and be confident in the fact that my mother-in-law would have called by now if there were problems. Plus, I had Shalom's flickr page up for the duration of the day so I could just look at her in her Juicy bathing suit to get really excited about seeing her when the day was over!
I pumped in the broom closet (not really) around lunchtime. That was demoralizing, but whatever, had to be done. THEN I called.
Turns out Shalom had been giggling, talking, cuddling and shopping at Home Goods since we last spoke. Not a single cry. Not even a whining session. Nothing. Happy as a little clam. She only drank 2 ounces of her bottle though. Hmmm. That made me a little nervous, but if she ain't crying, okay.
Did some more work shit. Emails. Calls. Blah Blah Blah.
I headed home. Nerves were riling up. My neck was tense as shit. My shoulder blades were on fire like I was walking through the desert carrying a basket of fruits and textiles on my head.
Shalom was on my front porch waiting for me with my mother-in-law. Just cuddling. My mother-in-law told me she drank another two ounces. So only four ounces while I was away?
We get inside.
Oh?
Now you want to get fussy. You've been smiling all day and now you'd like to get fussy Bebe Zahara?
She mauled my boobs. Fussed some more. Then proceeded to vomit seemingly everything she just ate all over me, herself and the Eames lounge. Damn it. That's the best piece of furniture in the room. Girl! Shalom! How could you!?
I stripped down to bra and undies. Put Shalom down on her activity mat. Yes, cleaned the Eames lounge first. Then the floor. Then ran Shalom a bath. No sense baby wiping her down if I planned on bathing her later in the evening anyway.
She bathed. Got in pajamas. FINALLY we can cuddle on the sofa. She starts talking to me. Laughing and stuff. Talking about how everybody at Home Goods was feeling her. Even the 20-year-old not gay checkout boy. How she can't wait for NYC Prep to start. How she thinks she wants to wear her pink Polo tomorrow if I don't mind washing it for her tonight. How she met some 8 month old boy while she was out walking. He was cute and everything but she was way way out of his league so she, like, humored him. You know, the regular stuff we discuss.
Then she took a huge shit.
I changed her and this little mother fucker fell asleep. All of the above went down within one hour of walking in the front door. So now I'm here sharing all of this with you while she sleeps. Snoring actually. So much for missing mommy. Mommy who?
:(
I am now fighting the urge to wake her ass up. I want to play with you Shalom! What is your problem?
The point is -- I'm alive. And she's alive. And it can be done.