Alas, WAIL AND MOAN, covering my eyes did not make time stand still and I am returning to work next week. Happy times are over. Sad times have arrived.
Because I’ve gone through this before, I know what to expect. I will be teary and miserable upon leaving the house for a few weeks. When asked about my baby, I will choke up. I will bring pieces of Bunlet’s clothing to snuffle into. On Fridays, when my husband is home with the kids, he will offer to bring my baby past my office and I will actually accept the offer despite it being silly. But wouldn’t you jump at the chance to snuggle this baby?
Then it will get easier.
At some point I may even be glad to have a scrap of my intellectual life back again, though I’m not counting on it. My research is in tatters after almost a YEAR of neglect and I feel exactly…*measures*…ZERO enthusiasm for my job. But I’m participating in a coaching program for “mid-career faculty women” (that DOES make me feel like I’m wearing orthopedic shoes, thank you) and perhaps the fire will be magically re-ignited by visioning exercises or some such total bullshit. Yeah.
It’s also conceivable that I’ll be a better parent on Mondays (when I’ll be at home) because I’ll have greater reserves of patience and enthusiasm for the joys of childcare…certainly it’s not likely to make me a worse parent.
I do recognize that I’m basically complaining about being asked to lie about on a silken divan while slaves fan me with great big fans made of peacock feathers and feed me the finest of cool ranch Doritos. I have a wonderful job, great child care, a luxurious schedule… It’s not about logic. It’s about an ache in the throat that comes with being separated from my warm, sweet-smelling, chortling, kicking, bundle of son.