I just had a baby. Yes. Me. The woman who said she would never have another child nor get married. I managed to (a) have another one and (b) marry the baby daddy, too (Young Gun…’member him?). I made plans and God laughed. Doesn’t He always?
Said four-month-old baby is miles away getting fed and changed by daycare ladies while I am at work squirming in a hard arss chair (which I am convinced is grinding my vagina bones into dust little by little). I have checked the daycare daily report feed about thirty times in the last two hours. I can’t even. This is not for me.
I say work is not for me but in all actuality it isn’t the working that’s not for me, it’s the being back in…hmmm…. society? Not saying SAM’s aren’t apart of society. I just wasn’t. I barely brushed my hair or cleaned my underboob (or wore a bra) while I was a temporary SAM. Now I am thrust back into rush hour traffic, eating Pop-Tarts for lunch, and fake smiling. I have been thrown back into wearing underwear and shoes. I am subjected to professional stuff. If I was not one of those go-to-work-only-to-daydream-about-being-home kind of people before, I am today.
I mean, I could totally flip my desk over and burn up the road. I could call Young Gun and tell him I quit this $!@#. He would understand. He would say okay and freak out behind my back. I could plan my day around going to the WIC office and applying for government assistance. I could go to Starbucks and work on the next great American novel. I could be with Cookie. There could be fresh baked cookies or muffins for The Boy and The Girl when they get home from school. Dinner could be ready as soon as Young Gun hits the door. There could be forest animals flitting about and little singing dwarves dropping by. It could be….
A mess. An absolute mess. Who am I kidding? None of that would happen. There would be fresh nothing for the older kids, dinner would still be rushed, burnt and late, the only animals flitting about would be Tinkerbell and all her little flea friends. I would end up sitting at Starbucks getting fatter (and broker) by the day and writing the next FB post instead of a novel. *Sigh* As much as I don’t wanna admit it, sitting in a cubical on this vagina-bone-grinder might just be where I need to be—for now. At least until I grow up a little or win the lottery…whichever comes first (wink).