Feeling Bereft

The time I’ve dreaded for months is finally arriving: I am returning to my old job.

And even though this current job is poorly paid and involves a lot of literal shit, and there are days after broken nights that seem insurmountable to fill, it’s also been the most joyful job I’ve ever had. The most precious and special and one-of-a-kind gig.

I am also torn. Why am I going back? We don’t need the money exactly, we could use our small savings. But we want the money, we want to buy a house with a yard so I can hose you down in the summer when you’re getting rowdy. We don’t want parenthood to spell the end of overseas adventures. We have so many hand-me-down clothes, but sometimes I want to dress you in an organic kimono onesie and not in my cousin’s decade-old outfits that now seem frankly garish.

Even though there are so many who return to work outside the home earlier than me and I am only going back part time, I am still jealous of all those parents who get longer as full time carers. Who can choose caring and still get the house, the holiday and the fancy baby clothes.

Because I am bereft when I am away from you, separate from you. We have spent so long entwined and I know that we cannot always be this way, but I am hungry for more time with you. The notifications from the creche are simultaneously way too much information (and how on earth do these carers find the time?) and too little (so she had the pumpkin soup, but how did she consume it? How much ended up on her forehead? And did she kick happily on the change table like she does at home?). I must accept that I am not there and that’s painful.

Returning to work is also about accepting the passage of time, these months where I can just stare at you all day are over and you are no longer the smallest baby at the library. I am caught between looking forward to the future, because I am excited about all the firsts (steps and words and games) and the (hopefully) more sleep, but also never wanting this to end because you are my first and everything is new and I’ll never have it back again. You’ll never be that small again.

I don’t want to go back but I will and I just hope this pain will dull and I’ll find unexpected joys in what’s to come.

—Anonymous