Bad Mommy Blues

Yesterday at 3:15, I got a call at work from H's school, letting me know he had a fever of 101.5, was pretty flushed, and I should pick him up. Of course, I replied! I'll be there as soon as I can.

Yesterday at 4:45 (my normal pick-up time), I walked into H's classroom.

Why on earth would it take me 1.5 hours to get to my poor, sick boy? What kind of mother does that?

Public transportation, that's why. And me, that's who. Hence, the Bad Mommy sticker I feel like I have plastered on my forehead right now.

I work in the city, H's school is in the burbs. And this city's public transportation system is in the crapper. Trains are infrequent, often late, and enjoy breaking down on periously high bridges for no apparent reason. Despite the call, the next train available was the one I would have taken any other day. And so I sat at my desk for 20 minutes, then sat on the train for another 40 or so, while my overheating babe sat abandoned.

The entire train ride, I willed the car to move just a little faster. I shot death stares at passengers who seemed to take a century to get onboard. I kept thinking about my sweet angel and how he (and his teachers) must be looking at the clock and shaking their heads. OK, so maybe he wasn't looking at the clock, being 6 months old and not being able to tell time and all. But he was judging me!

Upon pick-up, I did what I could to redeem myself. We went to the doctor (clean bill of health, no issues, just probably a passing virus). We kept him home today (lucky W). I snuggled and kissed him to sleep.

But still, I feel like I'm in the wrong. I should work closer. I shouldn't work at all. I should know some secret mommy way to keep the germs away.

Fail. Fail. Fail.

The little things

As one of my New Year's Not-Really-Resolutions-But-More-Like-Things-I-Want-To-Do-More, I decided I was going to stop being a complainer.

Yes, you read it right my dears, I am a complainer. I always have a beef with something. Or someone. Usually many someones.

But I am so very, very blessed, and I know this, and so I decided I really need to redirect my energies and focus on those good things I've got going.

Most nights, this comes into play when I have struggled through another day at the bee hive, rushed home to spend some time with H, gotten him down to sleep, and am running around loading laundry, cleaning bottles, picking up toys, and making dinner before W comes home. I'm stressed, I'm tired, and I'm wondering when I actually get to live. You know, instead of just getting through the day.

So I make myself stop for 5 miliseconds. I think about those things I have that make me so very lucky. Usually, my mind goes right to W & H. Those boys are the best ever and I don't know how the universe paired crazy, complaining me with those angels.

Other times, I think about my great parents, my hilarious friends, my health, the roof over our heads.

Last night, my eyes drifted over to the kitchen island. And I suddenly had my "Life is good" moment:

Oh. Hell. Yes. Irish potatos are delish. They are divine. They mean spring. Instant smile! If you live in a sad part of the world where these are not available every March, I am sorry. I have a recipe if you need it. And you do need it.

You do the math

Let me preface this rant with the following: I love my son. I love my life.

What I do not love is feeling like I'm not worthy of it. That I'm not doing enough in every single little aspect of it. That I'm not worthy of my supermom cape.

I wake up at 5:30 each morning, get myself ready, get H ready, and run out the door to daycare. I then fight an hour of traffic to get to work, where I deal with the standard office antics and bs, as well as pump twice. I then fight the same traffic the opposite direction, whisking H away from the center around 5:30 pm. We get home, I quickly feed him dinner, we have 15 minutes to chat and chill, then it's into the bath, into the pjs, and into dreamland (or into an hour-long fight as he tries to convince me 4-month-olds don't need sleep). Then I head downstairs, clean the house up, throw something in for dinner, clean the pump equipment, make bottles for the next day, and crash on the couch just long enough for W to come home and sit with me for 30 before I fall asleep.

This is not right. I am not spending enough time with my son. Poor W hardly gets to see him at all during the week. W and I have no time alone aside from heart-to-heart at 3 am when he swats me and mumbles "The baby wants you." I'm in and out of work as quickly as I can be and I'm worried I'm slacking there now because of it. I need another hour or two. I need a teleporter. I need a drink.

I've submitted a proposal to work to allow me to leave the office by 2 pm and work the last few hours from home. While this may not look like the way to become a better employee, having time with my son will make me happier and less crazy-eyed, so they would get that benefit. It's the only way I can currently see this working. H sets his bedtime and he has moved it up, and my job is to faciliate that. Hell, my job is to move mountains if he asks nicely.

So that's the sit. Cross your fingers and toes that something pans out. If not ...