But I’m jealous. Terribly. Jealous they will get to witness moments only human to human contact can create. Moments this mama wants to see, breathe, be one with. But it’s better than daycare. That’s what everyone says. I don’t have to worry about my little B calling his day care attendant mommy. I do worry it might happen with Grandma. She gets to hold him as he falls asleep on her shoulder during afternoon naps. She gets to cuddle him when he’s fussy, legs kicking, arms and shoulders squirming, back arching like a waterfall of wonder, searching for me in his baby mind. She gets to feed him bottles of my milk, expressed in a lonely room during an eight-hour stretch away from him. Away from my heart.
Every time I leave little B I feel like my heart is getting ripped out, cut out by a hunting knife, sliced into filets. Then I cry all the way to work. Hysterically, not gracefully, with little diamond tears, like a wailing woman who is not right. Not full, not happy. This emotion curves into a dimension that hesitates nothing. Just batters me in like a battering ram, pole and all.
I am struggling with going back to work. I don’t believe babies should be away from their mamas. But I have to work. It just is so. We developed this plan so I could stay home with little B after this year. But I am going back on the plan, ripping up the carpet and wanting to start from scratch. No work for me. No more stitches.
How do people do it? My husband is trying to relate his experience of going back to work. I am just not into it. My experience is worse. I know I am being selfish in my thinking. I just know it. But I am having a tantrum. I want to throw a physical tantrum and scream, “I’m not going to work today or ever.” I think about it. But I get up, sluggish, tears dripping, and get in the shower, get dressed, and go, preparing for the surgery in the backwoods, back streets black market of my heart. Cold knife cutting into my heart, slicing out the bond between mother and son. What’s worse, is I hold the knife – this is my decision to return to work. Not out of want, but out of necessity. (I wonder if any readers are like, really, how damn dramatic she is, come on, a knife, a cold knife, stitches, back woods, black market?).
OK – I admit it is a little dramatic with the wording. But it does feel just awful going through this. I should have prepared more. I should have had a plan. I should have practiced. Practice. Yes – that would have helped. A dry run. A practice run. Bullshit. It just sucks and I decided to jump into the shitty shit without swimming laps first and getting in only to the waist first. But I jumped in and sank to the bottom, submersed in sadness.