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20 Minutes in my Toddler’s Head

My imaginings of my 14 month old daughter’s thought process while at gymnastics with her dad on Sunday morning.

Ooh a ball. Ooh two balls. Who is that lady? She’s got a ball too. Ooh more balls over there. Yup. Tastes like a ball. Dad! This ball has holes in it! I’ll take this ball. Why is that boy upset? Maybe I should give his ball back. Uuuuuhm, no. I’ll keep it. What did dad say? Oh, putting them away. I’ll just throw this one in and… Oops. Dad, it went over there.

Where are we going? Oh, there’s mats stacked up over here!  I’m going to the top! Ok, one knee up. Other knee up. I made it to the top! Horray for me! Ok ok. Time to get down. Alright, turn around. One leg… Ok I can touch the mat, now the other leg. Yes! I’m down. Look, dad! A trampoline. Nevermind, I see the mats I just climbed. Gonna do those again. One leg, two legs. Ok ok. At the top. One leg down, the other leg down. Dad! A trampoline! Hahaha! Jumping! A balance beam! Dad, where are you taking me? I want the balance beam.

Who is this lady singing? Rowing boats? Ooh! More balance beams. No, not this balance beam. I’m going over to this one. No! This beam is not too tall for me. I can get my foot up heeeeeere. Up! See, dad? Ok I’m done with beams. Let’s go over here. Dad? Why are you spinning me around? Let me down, dad. What am I walking on? No, I’m done with beams. Look at the barrel that baby is drumming on. Fine, pick me up and bring me over here but I’m going back to that barrel. This beam won’t stop me! I’ll just fall into the mat with my face. That’s what faces are for. Ooh, a different beam. No, dad, I can do this one myself. Ok, I’ll let you help me. Walking up a beam, do do do do! Oh, there are kids over there…. Whoops! Why didn’t my foot land on anything? Omg, did she say choo choo? “Woo woo!” Whoops. Sorry dad, I didn’t mean to hit you in the face.

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Fuck the Working Mom Guilt

I’ve been at work for a month now. An entire month where I’m not the primary one spending time with Beans during the week. I drop her off at daycare, or Grandma comes and spends the day with her or Adam takes her for the afternoon. There are significant portions of every weekday where I’m not the one in charge of my daughter.

And holy christ, is that ever nice.

That’s bad to say, right?

But you know what’s great about it? I’m not fucking burnt out at the end of the day. I’m not babied out. When I pick her up at the end of the day I can actually sit down and enjoy playing with her because I haven’t been playing with her all day. I miss her during the day. By the time I get home from work I want to engage with her. I want to watch her and see what developments she has hit today. I am so fucking amped for when she can talk and tell me about her day.

I want my kid to know that I have a life. That not everything I do involves her. I want my daughter to see me as the responsible adult I accidentally became worked really hard to become. I want her to see that I am striving so god damn hard to make our budget work, to advance my career, to keep my body healthy, to nurture friendships.

When I was little I thought I would be a stay-at-home mom. I didn’t really know there was another choice. No one told me. I didn’t ask. I know now that I am not cut out to be a stay-at-home mom. It’s not fun for me. Sure, it makes life easier. I can clean the house and do the groceries during the day and then Adam and I would get to relax more at night. BUT I don’t want to. I don’t want to spend my days trying to figure out how to entertain a one year old while emptying the dishwasher. I do not enjoy that. So much praise for those that do but I do not. I want to sit at my nice desk, wearing my nice clothes, my jewellery, my pretty shoes and use my brain for solving complex situations.

My kid likes daycare and Grandma days. This morning she gave me a kiss and waved me away when I dropped her off. Yesterday I got a picture of her trying to kiss the other kid at daycare. She likes it there. The fact that she likes it helps alleviate the ridiculously unfounded guilt I have about leaving her there.

I’ve always been told that I’m the best caregiver for her. That’s pretty fucking true, but you know what? I’m an even better caregiver when I take care of myself first.