The Wheels

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Creak, crick

Can you hear that?  It’s the wheels.  The wheels of our family routines fresh off maternity leave.

Day one: get dressed, feed the baby, wake the big kid, (big kid screams for Mama get her dressed instead of Papa), feed the big kid, get out the house, through the traffic, up the elevator, drop the kids, down the elevator, off to work.

Creeeak.

Day two: get dressed, feed the baby, wake the big kid, feed the big kid, get out the house, through the traffic, up the elevator, drop the kids (realize the nipples for the bottle are on the drying rack at home), down the elevator, off to work.

Wobble, Creeeeak.

Day three: get dressed, feed the baby, wake the big kid, feed the big kid, get out the house, through the traffic, up the elevator, drop the kids (realize the baby has had an explosive poop and poop is smeared up and down Mama’s right arm, sheepishly pass baby off to teacher), down the elevator, off to work.

Wobble, wobble, Creeeak.

Day four: get dressed, feed the baby, wake the big kid, feed the big kid (realize everyone is in the way and moving slowly, including the dog), get out the house, through the traffic, up the elevator, drop the kids, down the elevator, off to work.

Tic, tic, wobble, wobble, creeeak.

Day five: Wake up twenty minutes after the scheduled departure time.

Tic tic, wobble wobble, creeeak,  BOOM!  Wheels officially off.

Thirty five minutes late to work, and productive as hell from that extra sleep.

 

 

It’s the End of the World as We Know It

planet earth

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The end is near.  Really near.  Like three days away.  No, I’m not talking about the climate change report.  Nobody is. After all, Kanye went to the White House today so there are bigger stories.

No, I’m talking about the end of maternity leave.  My seemingly endless stretch of time with Baby 2 (and probably Baby Last) is doneski.

Calm mornings with warm fried egg breakfasts will become sweaty speed races with cold liquid protein.

Long lazy neighborhood walks will become daycare weight lifting sessions of babies, bags, and backpacks.

Quality time cooing and gooing will become lost time driving through Northern Virginia.

Remembering diapers and wipes when I leave the house will become remembering diapers, wipes, crib sheets, sleep sacks, binkies, bibs, milk for the day, 47 breast pump parts, ice packs for fresh milk, and sheets, blankets, and a water bottle for her big sis.  And if I’m lucky, lunch for me.

And cozy nursing sessions snuggling my babe will become solitary time in a dusty closet with suction cups attached to my breasts.

Oh, and I’ll have to work too.  And get there on time.

Yes, I’m concerned about the climate change report.  But I’ve also got the end of a different something beautiful on my mind.

 

 

 

Naked

When we simply exist, as a high school athlete, a research undergrad, a waitress, a housekeeper, a professional, they don’t see us.  They see the smile, the figure.  They don’t see the hard work, the determination, the excellence.  We are naked.

When the assault happens, we are scantily clad, too flirtatious, too drunk. We’re ripped of the clothes from our backs, our innocence, our humanity.  We are naked.

When we are finally compelled to report, not because it will help us heal or get justice, but because the highest court in the land is about to welcome our attacker, because the swing vote senator just said he’d vote yes, because the Senate Majority Leader promises to plow ahead with a vote this week, we bare our souls. In the United States Capitol.  In an elevator. In an airport. We are naked.

And vastly ignored.

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