Commited

A sickly sweet stench fills my truck. I can smell it each time I climb in. It’s origin is a mystery but I’m sure W has something to do with it…discarded fruit roll up, half emptied apple juice box, baggie of orange slices stuffed in a crease in the seat. Must dig around before it evolves into a homemade penicillin specimen.

Communication with the sprout has been so delightful lately. Seems like just overnight his infantile babbling has shifted to subject-verb or subject-direct object with real meaning and desire. “Larder (water), pwease.” “Hep up!” “Mumma big truck.” “Raycar fast, varoooom!” The other evening I was enjoying some soup that the Hubs had made earlier in the day and I was telling W that it was hot soup, yummy soup, that Dada made the soup, etc. W chimed in saying “Soup hot. Hot soup. Mama soup. Hot mama. Hot mama.” Fantastic!

Lately I’ve been more torn than usual between my responsibility to my job and to my son. I think all working moms go through this. It might have more to do with the longer daylight hours, that childhood sense that school will be out for the summer, and wanting to climb into a car or plane and go away with the family for a long while. Realistically though I feel like I’m missing out on so many small things that he’s doing now in leaps and bounds. Everything he does is like receiving a little gift, each one different and unique from the other. I want to be there for as much of it as possible. His teachers are the main recipients of said gifts and although they love and adore him, he’s not their child so they don’t reel with wonder and amazement at his small feats. Tearing myself away from him each morning is still just as heartbreaking as it was the first time I took him to daycare except now he says my name and runs to attach himself to my legs like a baby octopus or just flops in defeat into the lap of Miss Amy and sobs. In the mornings, I can hear his little voice calling out my name like an urgent request. He immediately heads upstairs to find me getting dressed for work. The sight of me is a relief to him. I can see it in his lit up expression but I hate knowing that his lovely squinty-eyed smile will soon be replaced with tears.

Then there’s the other side of the coin, the one that makes me wonder if I could actually spend all that time at home and surrender my professional self…and sanity. I go stir crazy when I don’t have projects of some magnitude on my plate. There’s only so many weeds, so much laundry, grocery shopping, tiding up and isolation one can experience before the mommy madness sets in.

I guess I’m looking for some flexibility but what I want to ask for I need to be committed to like a religion to make it work. It’s all a balancing act, a very complicated and stressful balancing act.