Confessions of a Part-Time Working Girl

When I greeted Sean at the door six weeks after we got married, wearing a Santa hat* and holding a positive pregnancy test, all kinds of emotions ensued.
*pertinent information: this was around Christmas time.

Among shock, excitement, incredulity and bounding joy, there was that nameless little "oh sh**!" emotion. Sean and I had originally planned on holding off a year or two on having the babes. Reasons for which: Sean was still in school, his current place of employment was suffering from a nasty bout of Economy and it's future was tenuous, and we were residing in a shoebox one-bedroom that the So Cal ruled it was ok to charge $1200/month for.

But the Man Upstairs knows his peeps. Sure if we had successfully waited a couple years perhaps we would have been more financially stable. Maybe we could've scouted out an affordable starter home. But THIS

Oh this girlfriend. She wouldn't be the same one if I had a baby 2 years later! I know I wouldn't have been the wiser, but I'm the wiser now - and there could be no replacing this fool. Not no how. God knows His business.

As a result of shotgunning the family-starting process, a couple adjustments had to be made to The Way I Imagined Things. I have not been immediately able to quit my job in favor of stay-at-home mothering adventures. I would love to. I always wanted to. Because then I would get to play this hysterical game all day:

*exasperated sigh* "Mom, you threw the superball under the ottoman again."

"Shoot I did? I did not do that purposefully so that I could see you do your sneaky stealth crawl to try and get a glimpse of it."

"Alright Mom. You wouldn't lie to me. But can you please try not to do that anymore because my arms are really getting too gelatinous for this."

I am fortunate to have a job that has been very accommodating with my schedule tweaking, reworking, adjusting, gutting and rebuilding. I now have all my mornings Mondee through Fridee until 10:30 to spend with Jordan. Still, though I know the situation can't currently be helped, I am plagued with guilt over the arrangement daily.

I feel guilty as I drop Jordan off at her (wonderful) sitter's. I am secretly pleased that she still clings to my legs for a couple minutes at drop-off, so I know I haven't been usurped - but guilt promptly sucker-punches me for that thought because a) it's clear that Jordan does want me to care for her, and b) I shouldn't be rejoicing in my child's sadness even if it is at my departure.

I feel guilty that occasionally I get caught up at work between penning masterpieces on insurance endorsements such as "the premiums are amended due to change in rating tier" (beautiful isn't it?) and fielding calls from disgruntled insureds accusing me (personally) of holding their invoice until after the grace period ends and mailing it only once the late fee has been applied (this has *really* happened). Suddenly two hours have passed and I realize I haven't even given thought to my child, until I glance at this pic at my desk.

Cue wave of guilt. Horrible. Mother.

Guilt for the unclean state of our apartment on the regular (too little time in the mornings!!) Guilt over the very serious lack of home cooked meals consisting of more than two ingredients or even of two different dishes (too little time in the evenings!!) Guilt for the mere hour and a half spent with Jordan by the time she and Sean get home in the evenings before she's gotta hit the haystack. Guilt guilt guilty. If it's not my horrible posture that's wrecking my back it's definitely my millstone, and I'd love to stay at home and be liberated of it.

But hey you know what, this too shall pass. And Jordan has been gracious enough to hit up her milestones in my presence: rolling over, crawling - actually it was "I'll crawl, but I'm gonna drag my right leg behind me so it's kinda more equivalent to a crawllimp" - walking, signing her manners ("more please" is my favorite: she taps both sets of forefingers and thumbs together then does a vigorous belly rub), and a few words here in there ("uh-oh" applies to  and means pretty much everything).

So while it's not perfect, I'm still pretty lucky. And I'm sure it will make being a Stay at Homer - eventually - that much sweeter. Here's to the countdown to SAHMhood.