Back in the Saddle

I survived my first day back to work with only a few minor scrapes and bruises. The morning did not go quite as well as I'd expected despite all of my careful preparations. Vincent decided to pick this day - of all days, to sleep in. So, instead of awaking to coos, sobs or even an alarm clock (like a well adjusted working adult might use) I woke up by spring boarding out of bed and into the light blue and white harlequin painted wall yelling, "Holy fuckballs - I'm late!" (And yes, I kiss my child with that filthy mouth. I'm not proud.)

I careened about the house trying to manage my hair with a woefully inadequate supply of bobby pins and a stretched out rubber band, smear make up on my face and prod the child into eating without inducing major spit up action. Thankfully, my angel on earth of a husband appeared bleary eyed and removed the baby from my shaking arm. He assured me everything would be fine and wished me a "blice nay."

I horked down a bowl of Cheerios and snorted a cup of coffee before darting out the front door a good hour later than I'd meant to. Because of the tardiness, I opted to take Matt's car - our 1991 Dodge minivan to the train station. The car has sat idle the better part of the summer being that it's filthy and ancient. Matt's got a soft spot for the captain's chairs, but I would rather navigate a smoking Pinto at a demolition derby than this P.O.S. It's really gross inside. There's a vague stickiness coating the interior that I think is not so much evidence of something spilled as it is the vehicle itself rotting. There are abandoned fast food wrappers on the floor, Lincoln log type structures composed of liberated pencils from the U of M and unrecognizable detritus from years of dudely inhabitants. It was tidier when my grandpa was using it as a doghouse in his backyard.

I turned the key and it rumbled into life, the exhaust system dangling in pieces beneath me. I put it in gear and the thing dinged at me. There was no washer fluid, but there never is. Another ding - the side sliding door doesn't shut properly, so the stupid sensor is always going off. Yet another DING - like, Seriously, I mean it - pay attention to the problems lady!! So, I looked up at the gas gauge and saw I had approximately 10 miles worth of gas. Considering the shape of the thing - that means I had about two blocks. The gas mileage isn't what it once was.

I steered her portside and over to the gas station by our house. I opened the flap to be confronted by four seriously ticked off hornets busy at work on a new nest - directly above where I needed to apply the gasoline to make the old chugger go in a forwardly fashion. I'd already run my card and stood there for a moment, nozzle at my side, eyeing them down. Nothing moved, except for a stray bit of tumble weed that danced down the driveway. I think I heard a crow squawk. I fingered the nozzle, waiting... One made his move toward me so I pointed and fired! Of course, nothing happened. I squeezed the nozzle again and about two droplets of gas dribbled to the ground. My thinking was if I could squirt them with the gas they'd probably drown. Unfortunately, unlike in the movie Tommy Boy, the gas does not spray out. It just... dribbled - which seemed to seriously annoy the wasps (bees? Whatever the cranky ones are with the long front arms.)

So, I had to get back in the beast and maneuver it homeward. The dinging commenced and now there were just six miles to go before empty. Perfect. I got in my car. My somewhat clean and functional car and drove it in. Matt and the boy would be home bound for the remainder of the day. They would have to cope.

When I eventually arrived at the office everyone was wonderful. They were so welcoming and genuinely happy to see me return. There were the panging waves of regret that seized me occasionally - I felt so bad for my boy. He would have to be on a bottle all day and while his father loves him dearly, it's just not the same as mom. Plus, I'm squishier. That has to be the preferred place to nap, right? I tried to call home a couple of times to check in, but I was crazy busy and the baby was crying almost every time I picked up the phone. I felt terrible, but had too much to do to linger on the regret and guilt for too long.

I raced all over the agency. We had clients in and although I had every intention of letting others continue to cover their meetings - I couldn't stand not to do it all myself. I soon came to regret my adorable outfit choice. The skirt I was wearing was lovely, but the constant rubbing together of my new motherly thighs was not. There was chafing, chapping, sweating, burning and soon a wet hot searing pain that accompanied every step. Luckily, I had my feet to distract me. Not wanting to miss out on the pain game, my poor tootsies that have been cradled in foamy flip flops since somewhere around April, were now balancing atop some adorable Kenneth Cole wedge sandals. And they were barking. I was soon developing an angry little blister on the bottom of my right foot, while my toes cramped and my heels ground into the base of my shoe until both feet were swollen to pregnant girl proportions. I could barely move and sitting didn't help, because there was always the promise that I should stand again soon. Standing after a brief period of sitting brought the pain into sharper focus. If I just stood, walked or raced, I never realized how bad it was - kind of like when you're beaten into a coma.

And yet, I made it through. The clients left happy and I tried to be modest about taking any credit for that. Before too long it was five o'clock and time to get home. I was making my hobbled, bow legged approach to the train when I was joined by two lovely and noticeably not enfeebled coworkers. Both happened to be wearing shoes that were similar to my own. Not wanted to let the pain show, I had to suck it up for a couple more blocks. Of course both are taller than me with longer legs by about a mile. I broke into a light jog, while tapping the side of my disheveled ponytail, envisioning Rita Hayworth, but more likely resembling Rita Rudner.

We pleasantly chatted the whole ride to my stop when I got out and walked until they were out of sight. Then I stumble/waddled to my car, praying for the ability to levitate all five blocks there. Once safely in my car I put the pedal to the metal to get home - my boys needed me! My poor, defenseless baby. He would no doubt be missing the warm embrace of his mother - the woman who loves him like no other. The safest, warmest place he's ever known in his sweet life. His papa loves him, but there's nothing like mama.

You can see where this is going, right? I burst in to be greeted by my adoring husband and a baby that did not give two poops about me. Well, maybe one poop, as there was a giant load in his pants waiting for me. I made the mistake of trying to pick him up and instead of the angel coos I'd been expecting, I got the purple headed shriek of the seriously pissed off. He did not want to eat anything, thank you very much and did not appreciate the cold wet wipes that were applied to his rosy bottom in an effort to remove the poops.

Matt fled for a walk around the block and I can't say I blame him. I've by now spent enough days at home solo with the babe to know that it is exhausting and a break is always appreciated, no matter how brief. I struggled to make the kid content, if not happy. He didn't like me sitting, which was a problem as I'd now been severely, if not permanently crippled. My thighs were so inflamed that no amount of salve or soft cotton could quell the burning. My toes and feet were slowly gnarling up together into rocky stubs unrecognizable as human, but more like hippo stumps.

I laid down in our bed, with my loving husband in a feline curl around me while I tried in vain to snuggle with my baby. This is my usual "get him to a good sleep" pose. He fussed, puked, yanked, clawed and spit at me. So much for the mother child bond. Jerk.

Matt, again - husband of the year, finally took the baby out of the room and encouraged me to go to sleep. I got a solid five hours before having to bolt from bed, messy haired, hobbled and smelling vaguely of cheesecake only to try to do it all over again.