Chef Boyardon't

I go home on my lunch break to test just how short one hour can be.

Take 20 minutes off for driving there and back.

Take 10 minutes off for helping to get Fletcher changed into a fresh diaper and outfit, and playing.

Take 10 minutes off for preparing my lunch and Fletcher's lunch, attempting to feed us both, and staining us both with Chef Boyardee's Red Sauce From Hell (or RSFH, if you will). I wipe it up and turn away to try to put a spoonful of food in my mouth, and Fletcher picks up his bowl and dumps it all in his lap.

Take 6 minutes off for changing his outfit and wiping the stains into his feeding chair and the rug under the table.

Take 3 minutes off for helping Fletch drink his milk.

Take 10 minutes off for Fletcher spitting up the RSFH while he's running across our living room, and we get busy wiping the stains into the carpet.

In the last minute, I get to say goodbye to a little boy who knows I'm leaving, who doesn't want to let go of me, who throws a fit if I set him down. During this last minute, Andy's doing what he can to clean the rug, the carpet, and whatever else was hit with the RSFH. And he's asking me why I'm not leaving.

When I walk out the door, it all stays with me. I don't take a "break" and leave parenting behind me for the afternoon. If those 60 little minutes were stressful, you can believe the rest of the day will be. I can't stop hearing his tantrum voice and wishing I were there to help clean up the mess.

Instead, I'm at work, where a slew of tasks waits. I'm here, with stained pants and an almost empty stomach, shirking responsibility for two minutes so that I can write this. It feels as though everything I want to do – personally, professionally – is all compounding on me as every moment passes, and it is too overwhelming to manage.

As I pick up my professional to-do list and my stomach rumbles, I'm wondering how hungry Fletcher is, and what his daddy will feed him while I'm away.

I'm guessing it won't be Chef Boyardee.

forget juggling

I was writing a comment on J. Elle's post when I realized I had too much to say about being a work-outside-the-home mother.

Coincidentally, the topic comes during a week that makes a very good example of why working and mothering at the same time is, in one inadequate word, hard. Another word is pressure. It's like being squeezed from all sides until I think my head might pop off.

My job is important to me. I like the work, I'm good at it, I enjoy being needed and wanted in a professional capacity, and it's GREAT having reliable income in this economy.

That being said

Nothing -- no great feeling -- comes even within an inch of how desperately wonderful it is to be this baby's mother, how fulfilling it is to care for him, how hard it is to be away from him. I don't care at all (yet?) that being a mother is thankless, and maybe that's my professional-self talking. Maybe if I spent the entirety of every day being mommy-and-only-mommy, I'd feel like dooce and many other stay-at-homes who call it rigorous and tireless and wish they could get a BREAK.

I get that.

But I still want it.

I've said before how incredibly lucky I am, that as a work-outside-the-home mom, I am as close as I can be to a stay-at-home -- work is about ten minutes away, I don't do daycare, and I see him and nurse him during (almost) every lunch hour. Our routine is complicated in order to make it work, and involves a morning schedule and grandparents and a sleep-deprived daddy. But I'll do whatever I can to keep the routine.

All of this will change, and probably soon. For one thing, we may be moving. For another, being the mother of an almost-eight-month-old is a PIECE OF CAKE compared to being the mother of a couple of toddlers, or at least that's the impression I get. Whether you're at home or not.

When it comes to being a full time mother and full time worker, I can't juggle. I just can't. All the balls tumble down, starting with the least important.

I don't wear makeup. I don't do a thing with my hair. I'm just lucky if I'm relatively clean when I leave the bathroom in the morning with a cranky (I have to force him to stay awake) baby. I go to work looking like a hungover college student.

When we need things, I don't make it to the store. I squeeze in some Amazon shopping when we're desperate for diapers. (Thank you, Amazon Mom.) There isn't time for the basics like paying bills, trimming nails, cleaning floors, cooking meals (ha!). My gourmet dinner last night was Kraft Mac 'N Cheese. (I even eat like a hungover college student.)

So if you want to know how to juggle it all, don't ask me. When I'm not doing the paid work, my hands are busy with the baby. I just watch all those pretty balls drop and bounce.