9 to 5

It’s 9 AM and I’ve cried Five times. Not the 9 to 5 you were expecting, huh?

The first time I cried today was 7:15 AM. Let me preface this by saying, I almost cried when my alarm clock began lightly beeping and vibrating at 6:45AM. I say lightly beeping because I am the lightest sleeper due my post-child development of super-hero-like, super sensitive hearing AKA I wouldn’t be surprised if I woke hearing a pin drop on the floor of the neighbor’s house. Anyway, it was a rough night. Baby Boy must be teething or having a severe case of separation anxiety. Hubby and I, despite the king sized bed, hardly slept as teeny tiny little boy kicked, punched, slapped, flipped, cried, and did gymnastics in our bed ALL NIGHT LONG. So I cried into my coffee cup as I readied myself for work.

We all know, once you cry, crying again seems to happen twice as easy. Well my husband and I have disagreed on the co-sleeping thing a few times now. He is more inclined to let little man cry it out for fear he will get too used to sleeping in our bed. Now, I am not talking every day co-sleeping. I prefer my bed with just my husband in it if you catch my drift. But occasionally, we will co-sleep when baby is crying and can’t seem to self-sooth. Often it is easier to just put him in the middle so the whole family can get some much needed shut eye. Then, once little guy falls back to sleep, we carefully return him to his crib.

Well, on this particular day, no one slept that great and even my hubby who can run effectively on two hours of sleep, looked tired and beat up. We had carefully moved our son back to his room when his alarm clock went off which is always before mine. Casually, he asked, what do you think is going on with him (meaning our son)? To which, I shrugged. Our barely 1 year old “toddler” can’t exactly tell us what’s wrong yet. So I told him my best guess: teeth or separation anxiety.

A part of me selfishly hopes it is just teeth. But the other part of me, the heart in me just shatters. While the thought that my son enjoys my presence so much that he yearns to be close at night is sweet; however, I know the more likely scenario is that I am gone so much during the day for my job (8-5) that he misses me and the few hours in the evenings are not enough. The thought, that he misses me that fiercely, is crippling. So I cried again, through the newly applied make-up and into my second cup of coffee.

Now at this point, it’s nearly 8AM, and I realized I am running behind schedule. I go into my now sleeping child’s room knowing I am waking up a monster who hardly got any sleep. Immediately upon opening the door, I am punched in the face with the most awful smell. The undeniable smell of a diaper full of poo. I think “please, dear Lord, let it all be in the diaper.” As I am covering my nose, eyes watering from the smell, it is clear the poo was explosive. (Why, why, oh why today + thank goodness this isn’t in my bed). I get my child up, who is none too happy with me for waking him. While trying to hold his thrashing body away from my dress clothes, I cleaned him up. It takes what seems like a hundred wipes and perhaps it would’v’e been smarter just to bathe him, but I got him clean. Then, just as I am nearly finished, my beautiful son ninja kicks the hardly recongnizable poop-covered diaper. In slow motion I watched as the diaper grazed my white blouse and my arm. And I cried. Broke down and cried horrible ugly tears that ruined my now-twice applied make up.

So what else could go wrong, right?

Wrong! As I said before, it’s always easier to cry a second time (or third or fourth). It is as if the tears are right there, just waiting for that second (or third, or fourth) cry. So finally, I got my son to my in-laws who graciously watch him twice a week. He was thrilled to see them, until he realized I was leaving him. He started crying a bit, and with a quick kiss I turned and ran for the exit. Its 8:15. I closed the car door and I cried. I hate leaving him. It breaks my heart.

You know what else breaks my heart though? The fact that as I finally got myself put back together, ordered myself a bagel and a tea from Dunkin Donuts, I started crying again. This time, I am crying because a thought had crossed my mind. The thought: “Thank God, I get to go to work.” I love my job, but the fact that I feel so fulfilled and utterly thankful that I get to go to my job on a daily basis (mostly for my own sanity), made me feel like the worst mama. Now, I feel guilty for enjoying my job. So for the fourth time this morning, I cried.

I FINALLY got myself into my office, my little slice of adult-only paradise where I can enjoy some classical music while I do what I love, barely by clock-in time at 830AM. After nearly thirty minutes, I am finally enjoying my now-perfect temperature Dunkin Donuts tea, my emotions were leveling out, and I catch my breath. (Phew, what a rough start.) I smile and mentally pat myself on the back for surviving. Just then, my phone started beeping with a message from my mother in law. “Just saying hello” it reads and attached is a picture of my son looking as adorable as ever and as if he is having the time of his life. And I cried, for the fifth time in less than two hours, simply because mama bear misses her baby cub.