It's a Joke! Kind of.

"How was your break?"  Asks one of my coworkers on my first day back from having eighteen days home for the holidays.

"Wonderful.  Fabulous.  So much fun.  And I'm so glad to be back at work."

"He he he," is the general response in the room of a few of my coworkers.

It is an uncomfortable kind of laughter that people produce when a joke is inappropriate, or just lame.

And then again, tonight:

"The problem with Elmo is that he is supposed to be a typical four year old, which is cute, in moderation.  But being with a small child like that all the time can get grating, which is what happened when Elmo was all of a sudden everywhere."

We were discussing children's programming at the end of the evening as a group of us were walking out, and the conversation turned to Elmo's irritating qualities.

"I know.  I know.  Why do you think I was so happy to come back to work?  And mine's only almost two!"

Again:  "He he he."  Or even, "awww don't say that."

It's a joke!  Kind of.

I am so happy to be back to work.  Before my daughter was born, I thought I would go into a PhD program full time.  Barring that, I figured I would find full time teaching work.  After my daughter was born, I decided to be a stay at home mom.

Three months later, I went back to work part time.

This situation has been ideal for me.  I have a Master's Degree in Comparative Literature and I get to use my education to pursue my passion for teaching and discussing language and literature.

I also get to be a full time mom who works part time, instead of the two alternatives:  full time employee who is with her kid part time, or stay at home mom.

I am fully engaged with Celaya when I am home with her, playing, teaching, exploring, listening, reading, and those are just the things I do that center around her.  Everything else I do when she is awake still involves her somehow.  She empties the dishwasher with me.  She helps me cook.  She helps with laundry.  She holds the cord while I vacuum.  Or I hold her.  She dusts my already dusted shelf while I am dusting.  She is the absolute ultimate without question center of my universe when she is awake and we are together, which is the vast majority of my time.

And dear goddess is that exhausting.  She wears me out.

But it is a good kind of worn out, like a great workout, or a productive day at work.  Being a full time, fully engaged mom is hard work.

Going to my profession work is actually a break for me.  It also reminds me that I have a vocabulary and reading and writing level beyond Olivia Helps With Christmas, an added benefit.

It is interesting to me that so many people are uncomfortable with a mother saying, "man it's nice to take a break from my kid."

Now, to be fair, all but two of the people I work with have no children, so obviously, in their minds, children are cute and cuddly or annoying and repulsive.  The complexity of children and what is involved in raising them is beyond anyone who does not actually have children.  I know.  I was in the cute and cuddly camp before Celaya burst into my world with strong lungs and a thirsty, sponge like mind.

And the one woman I work with who has children asked today, when I mentioned how rigid I am about Celaya's schedule, "how do you get your husband to put her to bed on time?"

She was genuinely interested.  There was a clear sense of "Mama needs her alone time" camaraderie.

She gets it.  Parents get it.  Or at least they should.

I read a blog on the Huffington Post today by a woman who was confessing to her rage issues with her children:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/wendy-bradford/the-part-of-parenting-were-too-scared-to-talk-about_b_4531665.html

I will confess, I cannot relate.  I have never felt rage toward or because of Celaya.  And I have felt some pretty extreme rage.  But I know I am fortunate to be an older mom.  Having my daughter at 33, after graduating from graduate school, and being married to an incredibly supportive and involved husband makes for an enormous capacity for patience and empathy.  I have always tried to see things through my baby's eyes.  How difficult it must be to be separated from her mother, how painful it must be to have colic, or to be teething, how frustrating it must be to want something and not understand why she cannot have it.

Yes, I get frustrated, but I have learned (over years and years of practice and dedication) to breathe through my frustration, and I try to reason with my quickly developing, energetic, anxious, eager toddler, in whatever way possible.

Rage?  Never.

But I can empathize.  I can try to imagine what it would be like to feel the rage I have felt in the past toward the person I love most in the world, and then the guilt and shame that must come from that.  Since I have become a mother, I have tried not to judge other mothers who are clearly just trying to do the best they can with what they have.  I have not always achieved this goal, but it is a work in progress, thanks, in large part, to having read Ayelet Waldman's Bad Mother.  This book should be required reading for anyone who gives any thought at all to criticizing a parent.

My daughter pushes me to my limits.  And I know that my limits are different than other parents' limits. And I know that I only have one child to push me (one big reason I have chosen to wait a bit longer before having another limit pusher).  And I know that my child is not even two years old yet.  Hopefully my limits will grow along with my little bundle of chaos warrior princess in light blue Converse.

She drives me crazy.  She is the greatest reward I have ever been given.  She makes me laugh.  I cry when she hurts.  I worry more, fear more, love harder, and push farther for her than I ever have before for anyone in this way. And yes, I am so happy to be back to work, back to balance, back to short, temporary breaks from my beautiful brazen bossy baby.

So please, parents and non-parents, just laugh at my jokes.