Day 167: Can I call in sick?

Motherhood is a full-time job. People are always saying that. I wish it were true, because how I miss my old 35-hour work week. How I miss lunch breaks and office gossip and conversations about things other than poopy pants and peek-a-boo. And, oh, how I miss that utlimate luxury of the working world: sick days. Some days you're just not up to anything more than staying in bed with a bottle of cough syrup and a full slate of daytime tv. Today is one of those days, but unfortunately my new boss is a bit of a slavedriver.

I should confess that my dismal outlook this morning may be in small part due to the fact that we celebrated my 30th birthday last night. And, perhaps, it has something to do with the bottle of wine I ended up drinking. As often happens when too much wine and milestone birthdays collide, I found myself thinking back to where I thought I'd be when I hit 30. When I was 10 I thought I would be hairdresser. At the time I enjoyed braiding my best friend's hair and so I figured I'd make a career of it. By the time I was 20 I'd moved away from dreams of hairdressing and towards those of corporate life. Power suits, business class travel, it all sounded so fantastic. Until I got my first job, of course. Anyways, the point of this traipse down memory lane is that whether I dreamed of high fashion or high finance, none of those dreams involved babies. And now here I am, still wandering in search of a career, but now with a baby in tow. I don't regret where I am, I guess it just goes to show you never know where you're going to end up.

Isn't it funny that you have to spend 16 years in school if you want to land a job that doesn't require a hairnet, yet you can just jump into this parenting thing with no training, no knowledge, no skills. Try as I might, I am still unable to find the right words to describe my sudden immersion into motherhood after Mads was born. "Overwhelming" comes to mind. "Insane" seems fitting. That first night in the hospital she screamed for 13 hours solid. Solid. That is no exaggeration. After the first several hours passed, I dragged myself over to the nurses' station, screeching baby propped awkwardly against my shoulder, certain that something was horribly wrong with her. Surely this could not be normal. "Some babies cry more than others," I was reassuringly told. "You've got a crier." And so began this journey into motherhood. It has certainly improved since that night, there are moments when I am sure I have the most gifted and gorgeous baby ever to be born. But then they pass, and I find myself wondering yet again if this job ever gets easier. For now I try to remind myself that while the hours may be a bitch, the benefits - that smile, that gurgly giggle - can be pretty great. And so the beat goes on.