Going Back to Work Conversations Suck . . .

It's hard to imagine going back to work when only this morning my ass and back hurt from Bruno sleeping on me for over an hour. I tried to put him down in his bassinet but he instantly knows that's he's no longer on me. He starts to throw his hands up, squeal, and just overall disapprove of the situation. I pick him back up. If he wakes up now he'll be a little cranky pants for god knows how long. Better to have a physical pain in the butt than a literal one for the rest of the day.

Having conversations with hubby about going back to work is another pain in the ass. Even though we are both on the same page, and have thankfully or strategically discussed all important matters pre-baby . . . it doesn't matter. Not arguing at all with your husband after having a baby and everyone's hormones and sleep patterns are in upheaval would be like siblings not fighting with one another while going through puberty. We are just both the unlucky ones when we wake up and both are in a bad mood. Usually it's either one or the other and we forgive the other knowing we all have bad days, but there is no forgiving when it happens simultaneously.

"Bruno is getting upset," daddy says. We both walk away from each other. Thank god Bruno can be the reason to not undeservedly vent hormones and frustrations on each other. So we forget it, because it's not real. Daddy kisses me before he goes to work and I sit on the rocking chair for over an hour. I get excited thinking about all the amazing things I could potentially cook if I really could do something in all my new time off, and then I remember 'that ain't gonna happen yet'. I think about the exercises I could be doing, but even that is sometimes hard to squeeze in other than our daily long walks and my arm lifts pumping Bruno like he's a ten pound weight. Maybe I can play dress up and try on all my old clothes and see what I actually fit into, but I know I won't because my boobs are huge for the first time in my life and I don't even know how to wear them. They're not even those kinds of boobs. They're ones that I yank out in public if I have to and hold/squeeze between my hands to give better lift into Bruno's vacuum cleaner mouth. They're his punching bags, and personal property. Even daddy is cautious to trespass. My day passes as thoughts of physical movement and potential projects tempt me. What I do have are: many phone calls, delightful two hour walks sometimes twice a day, and zero late night booty calls; barely even a night cap to wet my whistle.

And even . . . surrounded by all these changes . . . these seeming limitations . . . these harrowing suspects of the mundane . . . it is anything but that . . . these are the best moments of my life.