postcards from the edge

Dear Former Stay-At-Home Self,
Non-elastic waist pants with zippers and buttons are totally overrated. Also do you think me missing the quality time diaper changes afforded, may be a sign of some sort of mental breakdown?

Dear Yoga Pants,
Why can't you be considered appropriate workplace attire? I miss you old friend.

Dear Empty Lunch Bag,
I despise your emptiness. You have now replaced making lunch for two toddlers as the hair shirt I must wear.

Dear Grocery Store At 4:30,
Its been a while but you are still the cluster fuck I remembered.

Dear Alarm Clock,
I hate you most of all.

Dear Hair,
You being somewhat cooperative in the morning has made all the difference.

Dear Red Wine,
Never leave me. Seriously I'd be pissed. We're talking boiled rabbit pissed.

Dear Frozen Pizza and Caesar Salad,
One day there will be a week where I won't eat you, just not right now.

Dear Peeing Sometimes When I Sneeze,
You've overstayed your welcome. Don't be that guy.

Dear Travel Mug of Good Coffee,
I can't help but vocalize my love of you, but we might have to tone it down in front of the husband, it makes him feel inadequate.

Dear Sleeping Children,
In your ears I whisper all the things sometimes lost in the harried rush of the day. Please hear my words.

Dear Being Back At Work,
You are only a pain in the ass less the 50% of the time, mostly.

and now I have mom butt which is better than mystery poop but only a little bit

Going back to work after a glorious 16 months maternity leave will blow your mind in all kinds of ways you never thought possible, like when you release all the casseroles you can make with Stove Top stuffing while blatantly ignoring the sodium content in just one box of Stove Top goodness but you decide that sodium is the least of your worries in relation to your caffeine intake, forcing you to get real with how much coffee you really do drink in a day. Forcing you to consider taking drastic measures like coffee I.V.'s or a coffee patch.

Totally. Mind. Blowing.

And also I'm using the term glorious loosely because this blog is archived and all those tales of backyard pooping and boob popcorn I wrote while in a breastfeeding stupor are only a click away. But its glorious in comparison to getting boogers wiped on you by a pack of six year olds. Because at least the maternity leave boogers were the fruits of my loin. Not the actual boogers but the wipers.

And Little Miss starts to cry when we get within 5km of the childcare centre. She's either wicked smart or we have a category 5 clinger. I like my children reeking of co-dependent separation anxiety. It makes me feel loved.

Also Monkeybone likes mean dinosaurs best because they are just like Mommy.

But when I asked him later he said he likes nice dinosaurs too. I think he sensed that I was on the brink and threw me a bone.

Velociraptors have nice legs right? I'm taking comfort where I can.

Because when you go back to work after a loosely termed glorious 16 months maternity leave nothing fits, least of all your pants. They're all baggy and saggy in unsuspecting places.

Like your ass.

Leading me to conclude that I now have mom butt. Or it could just be the pants. But when I asked the hubs he was really reassuring in reiterating that I was a mom, while ignoring the butt part of the question. Which is totally okay because I'm too tired for sex anyways.

Ass lifting jeans will probably cut into my pretty panty and gravity-defying, NASA engineered push-up bra budget.

And even on the days that I'm not all saggy and baggy, when I actually look semi-put together, we will all get out to the car ready for loading and then I will smell poop. After checking the diaper and all surfaces that particular butt has touched, no poop will be found, making me realize that I've just experienced a mystery poop which is similar to a paranormal experience because of the haunting smell.

And while pacing the house sniffing, trying to find some prey to eradicate (in this case the poop) I almost certainly look like a velicoraptor.

But a mom velicoraptor.

Because of the butt.

working 9 to 5 but without Dolly Parton

Utterly exhausted and racked with guilt.

Please send reinforcements of red wine and McDonald's cheeseburgers.

And also Dolly Parton.

every journey starts with a single step

Mixed uppy.

Would be a good way to explain my current state of mind, or would have been a good way to explain my current state of mind. But that current state of mind, is no longer so current. And my state of mind is slightly less mixed uppy.

Back when that was the current state of my mind, the mixed uppyness, it was for all kinds of reasons. Reasons that had me feeling like I am about to leave on a big trip, what those more poetical than myself might call, a journey.

And as I head out on this big trip I have the nagging feeling that I am totally unprepared, like I might have forgotten my toothbrush or enough pairs of clean underwear. Except on this trip I won't be returning to where I left and the items that I'm not bringing with me aren't toothbrushes and underwear. They're things that I will never get back, will never have again, in that way. Like holding a newborn for the first time, in those breathless seconds when you are still connected to one another, and that connectedness you're sure will remain forever palpable even after its physicality is severed; like smiling sleepily in a tangle of chubby arms and baby curls on the couch as late afternoon sunshine streams through the window and snow blows across the backyard; like the lunchtime giggles; like the lazy mornings watching cartoons and drinking airy cups of tea meticulously poured from a yellow plastic teapot; like no schedules but nap time; like running after laughing feet; like soothing fears and kissing tears; like being home; like being there. Always.

At the departure gate it is especially hard because so much will change on this big trip and what if I miss everything, because on the tarmac, with the roar of the engines, everything feels like everything.

And then she walked. Her first steps.

From his arms to mine. A sweet farewell.

So, I picked up my suitcase.