The Bad Mommy Files - Working Mommy

Back in the days of marry-straight-out-of-high-school-or-if-you're-very-progressive-straight-out-of-college, most women went directly from living with mom and dad, to living with hubby, to having a kid hanging off each boob and wondering what happened. But becoming moms in our mid-thirties has left me and a lot of my friends in the position of having a "before" (like, a real, grown up life) to compare with the "after".

And while I won't speak for all of us (as some of my friends have happily embraced their new, full-time mom role - which, by the way is SOOOO a full time job - with patience and joy) for the rest of us (ok, for me in particular) the count-down to returning to work began on the heels of the first, bonding nursing session. Which isn't to say that I haven't enjoyed my time off with Otter immensely. But, truth be told, it was always with the understanding that there would be a parole period sooner or later.

Frankly, doing the kind of work that earns me a paycheck is about a billion times easier than working at being mom. And it allows us to remain in our house AND have food to eat. And while someone who hauls cement for a living might disagree, after the rigors of feeding, bathing, chasing, catching, and playing with a toddler for some 8- 10 hours, a day at the office has almost vacation-like calm.

I'd like to believe that working makes me a better mother when I AM home. But recent evidence suggests that even that may need some work. After a particularly early show morning (I had to be in at 6:30 am), I returned home in time to walk the dog child and the baby child in 100+ degree weather. After haplessly maneuvering dog, stroller and baby through the blazing hot street while trying to avoid stepping on my floor-length work dress (which I didn't have time to change out of) or running over said dog with said stroller, I struggled home, wilted and exhausted mentally calculating how soon I could put my put my dear baby (whom I had only spent some 60 minutes with all day) away, once and for all.

As I gathered bath supplies and accessories, Otter began protesting loudly to being put in her chair while the dog followed me around, well in my personal space, making sure I didn't overlook any portion of his dinner. I wish I could tell you how I rose above, basking in my baby's desire to be with me at all times, flattered by my dog's devotion. Instead, I stalked into the bedroom, and what I hope was out of their collective earshot and unloaded. "Shut up!" I whisper-yelled. "Shut up! Just shut the fuck up!"

After a few minutes, I walked out, my best Stepford Wife smile plastered on my face and chirped "Bath time, honey!" all the while dreaming of the moment Otter went down to sleep, the dog gave up his endless quest for food, and I would be rid of them both for the evening.