Kia ora all! Sorry about the lack of posts last week. There was a bit of drama happening around our way that I won’t go into, but things are back on a slightly more even keel this week so blogs will be happening again.
I hope you didn’t miss me too badly but please remember that crying, whether from genuine sadness or out of relief, is OK. You don’t have to keep it all bottled up inside, dear internet person. Let it out.
Speaking of having a good old blub, I have done a bit of that recently myself. And not just because that Twin Peaks really, really, really late third season is looking a lot less likely now.
It’s actually because starting next week I am returning to full-time work. Or, that is, I’m returning to full-time paid employment.
Naturally I’m nervous about this for a number of reasons.
To start with I’m somewhat, well “institutionalised” isn’t exactly the right word … but perhaps “offspring conditioned” is an accurate description. I’ve spent 16 months operating to a schedule that breaks down into units of “awake”, “napping”, and “eating”. Doing things in hour chunks seems positively alien to me at the moment.
Then there’s the worrying fact that I’m not used to spending a lot of time in the company of adults any more. I sometimes hum Wiggles and Sesame Street songs under my breath.
What if one of my new coworkers belches after lunch … and I congratulate them? What if one of them has a snotty nose and I try to wipe it for them? What if I can’t turn “the mummy” off?
This is far too horrific to contemplate, but if one were to imagine it, it might look like this (apologies to Boris Karloff).
So there’s that.
But also, I’ve been getting a bit upset about leaving the little dude. Which is surprising because for the longest time I fantasised about going back to work and spending eight hours a day NOT being vomited and defecated on.
I envied the Silver Fox his ability to go to the loo when he wanted or just casually pop out for sushi at lunchtime. He may as well have been eating caviar in the back of a chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce with P Diddy, it sounded so glamorous compared to the grind of caring for a newborn.
But the one constant about babies is that they’re always changing. And I find myself, a year on, feeling quite changed too.
For pretty much his whole life I’ve been his main carer. All the milestones and leaps in development, from laughing for the first time to his first wobbly steps, have been mine to enjoy. I haven’t had to miss any of them and I suppose I never fully appreciated what an honour that was, watching a little person discover and interact with the world, a centimetre or two at a time.
One of the things that really got me all weepy the other week was the realisation that The Master won’t remember any of the time we’ve shared together, before I had to go do a job and be something other than his Provider Of All Things.
I don’t remember anything until I was about two and a half, when my sister made an appearance on the scene (from that point on I documented religiously, confident that when she finally revealed herself as a Super Villian my studiously acquired intel would be her downfall).
I actually made myself quite miserable thinking about this … before I realised something important.
Not only will my son not remember the fun times he’s spent with mummy in his early days – he also won’t remember any of the terrible stuff, of which there is vast quantities.
I’ll never have to ask to be forgiven for turning my back when I thought he was miles away from the edge of the bed and he fell off and cried. Or the time I nearly dropped him out of fright because there was a spider on him. Or the times I didn’t change his nappy as early as I should have and there was a hull breach of epic proportions. Or the swearing when said hull breaches have been detected.
Or, look, just trust me that this is a loooong list. But the great thing is, he won’t remember a single one of my many parental transgressions and I think this is nature’s way of allowing us to have a functional relationship with our parents.
As far as I know, I was a perfect baby and my mother was always attentive, patient and kind and there’s no reason for me to think otherwise. The bits I do remember lead me to believe that she’s a great mother and always has been from day one. Any early adjustment issues or “handling errors” have long since been lost in the (great and seemingly continuous) wash cycle.
My mother, along with the Silver Fox’s, and the Silver Fox himself, will be sharing the childcare duties in my absence, so he will be in the best of hands. It will still be a big change for our little family though so any tips on making a smooth transition are certainly welcome.
Did you go back to a paid job after having a baby and if so, how did you find it? Is the fact that littlies forget the first part of their lives a blessing?
(This post was originally published on Stuff, 6 April 2015)