The good news is I've made it through more than half of my first week "back" to work (I use the terms return and back loosely as I actually work from home in the comfort of my pajamas).
The bad news is I haven't had a whole lot of time to do much of anything else. My day is pretty regulated, I get up around 6 a.m. with Braeburn to feed him, his sister wakes up soon after to get dressed and ready for preschool and then I work from 7:30-4:30, with an hour lunch break in there to squeeze some QT with my babies and maybe do a load of laundry. Once work is finished I usually tidy up whatever mess has been made throughout the day and then hand my kids off to my husband, while shuttling my baby-weight-carrying butt off to spinning or running. By the time I get home from this there's enough time to squeak in dinner before it becomes unhealthy late and then comes all the bathing.
And finally, around 9 p.m., I get a few hours to play couch potato with my husband while Braeburn falls asleep in his arms and Pearyn drools all over my lap.
And then I go to bed. Wake up and do it all over again. Sure, there are a few side trips in there, things like grocery shopping, softball lessons and an occasional night out with the girls, but for the most part, finding time for these things are few and far between.
When my husband and I had Pearyn, we used to joke that married couples without children are just "playing" house. Now that we have two children, we joke that parents of one are "playing" as well. I'm sure parents of three, four and more children feel like we're all in the minor leagues, while they've been called up to bat in the big show. After all, once you hit the three mark, you're officially outnumbered. There's only two of you and at least one too many of them.
I've always pictured my life with three bundles of baby in it, but now that we have two and I can barely find time to floss and take a shower by myself I don't know if we'll ever make the plunge to three. Perhaps if I could just birth a two year old I'd consider it. I am in no way, shape or form what you would consider a "baby" person. Babies scare the living bejeezus out of me. They cry, a lot (especially mine) and aside from a few smiles and gurgles here and there, they're kind of boring. I like the toddlers, the feisty ones that tell me to go to my room and remind me that I'm not supposed to say things like "hate" and "stupid."
I'm reminded every day how lucky I am to have my husband. Someone who doesn't just pitch in every now and then, but understands how working from home leaves me a little stir crazy by the time he walks in the door. He doesn't question my need to get away and run around a track aimlessly (like a hamster on a wheel) and he encourages me to take a little me time and have dinner with a friend. I take better care of myself because he takes such good care of me.
So long story short, we're all still here. We're all just trying to settle into our new routines, our new ways of life and I especially am trying everyday to embrace the chaos a little more.
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