Of course I’m happy to be back from maternity leave. Thanks for asking. Although in Scandinavia they get something like a year off to take care of a new baby, I am ready to hit the ground running, even though I can’t actually run because I’m still healing from getting dozens of stitches in my vagina.
Yep, it sure is good to be back. I woke up three times last night to feed the baby and two more times because I was scared the baby was being too quiet. But let me tell you, I am fully engaged and excited to start my day with a mandatory 7 a.m. on-camera Teams meeting launching a new product that was developed while I was gone and which I know nothing about.
On leave, I wore yoga pants and enormous T-shirts every day. Who wouldn’t be happy to get back to stiff fabrics that require ironing? It was a thrill discovering none of my pre-pregnancy work clothes fit, so I spent one of my last precious days with my child in the clearance section of JCPenney hunting for office-appropriate attire that could accommodate a constantly changing body and still absorb a breast-milk leak.
And speaking of breast milk, it’s no problem that you barged into my office while I was pumping, even though I have a sign on the door that says MOM BREAK. PLEASE KNOCK. It could happen to anyone. And it will probably happen a lot, since I have to hook myself up four times a day to this contraption like a Jersey dairy cow. Breastfeeding was hard at first, but now that we’ve got the hang of it, it’s our special time where we read books and sing songs, or sometimes my baby falls asleep and makes the tiniest contented sighs that make my heart feel like it’s going to explode with joy. But listening to the repetitive mechanical suck of the pump while my tits are falling out of this ill-fitting but expensive pumping bra that I bought so that I can reply to IMs immediately and with both hands is just as good.
Childcare? I feel great about it. Monday through Wednesday, I leave my child with strangers, pay them as much as my mortgage, and resist the urge to call every fifteen minutes to see if my baby has rolled over for the first time and I missed it because I was watching a compliance webinar. The other days, I guilt my aging parents into free babysitting, and occasionally plan to “work from home” and hope nobody notices a screaming infant in the background of conference calls.
You’re right, I haven’t talked that much about my baby. That’s not because earlier I thought of how his newborn smell is fading from his head and I’m losing opportunities to breathe it in, and it made me so depressed that I cried in the car for fifteen minutes. It’s because I’m so jazzed to instead talk about the new AI interface that was integrated into our client-management software and to use words like “optimize” and “paradigm shift.”
Around this time of day when I was on maternity leave, we’d take a walk, and my baby would look at the trees with a gummy, gaping smile of wonderment because the whole world is new to him, and it made me see the world through hopeful new eyes too. I’m relieved that time is over so that I could eat a soggy Panera salad and listen to gossip about how two new employees I haven’t met may or may not have had sex at the corporate BBQ.
I haven’t been wondering if I could sustain myself selling Victorian hair art on Etsy made with all the strands I’ve been shedding in postpartum hormone hell. I haven’t made a pitch to my husband about seeking a platonic sugar-daddy relationship with an elderly millionaire. I haven’t had my self-image shattered because it turns out my desire to be a high-powered career woman was driven by internalizing the misogynistic lie that work performed for wages is more valuable than unpaid labor taking care of a child, not by actual passion for my job. Or maybe I just didn’t know that I could love someone this much and being away from him all day would be like not being able to breathe.
Instead, I am fully present in reviewing every single one of these 12,482 unread emails, and it does not bother me one bit that a majority of them start with “We’ll connect on this when you’re back”.
Yes, I sure am glad to be back at work. When the clock hits 4:59 p.m., I’m shooting up out of my chair and speed-walking to the door only because I can’t wait to do it again tomorrow—not because I am so excited to see my favorite person in the whole universe that I can’t get home fast enough. And as hard as it was to be away, I still think I might try for a second kid in the future. And gosh, what a bummer it will be to be out on maternity leave again.
