Leaving my baby for the first time was a rush, and a tiny heartbreak.
The Joy and Pain of Returning to Work |
 | | Alessandra De Cristofaro |
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I went back to work when my firstborn was 6 weeks old — much like Kaitlyn Greenidge, who took her 6-week-old daughter to a conference and wrote a gorgeous essay describing her struggle to reconcile new motherhood with her identity as an artist. |
I went back because we needed money, and because I wanted to. You could frame this as a “choice,” but it was a choice made in the context of various constraints. I was freelancing at the time, so if I didn’t work, we didn’t have that income stream coming in. But I also knew I was not cut out for staying home alone with my baby all day. |
Every day that winter I was on leave, I would be fine all morning, and sometimes joyful. I packed the first few hours of our day with activity: No matter how cold it was, I bundled my baby up in her fuzzy bear suit and took her outside for a walk. I rocked her while singing “You Are My Sunshine.” I dutifully joined a local mom group, searching for kindred spirits. I started dinner in the slow cooker. I cleaned all the infernal bits and pieces of the breast pump and the Dr. Brown’s bottles. |
By midafternoon, I would run out of things to do, and would start feeling bored, and then, gradually, frantic. The sun set by 4:30, and there were hours more to go before I had help. I’d wait as long as possible before texting my husband: “eta? :)” I was trying so very hard to sound breezy, but by the time he walked through the door I’d be talking at him fast, and thrusting the baby into his arms. |
So we found a sitter who would work 30 hours a week, and I joined a bare-bones co-working space near our apartment. On my first day back at work, I remember walking up a wide city block — filled with boutiques that sold shearling clogs and locally-made pottery, and restaurants serving pork belly appetizers — my heart swelling with freedom. I went into a coffee shop, and ordered a coffee without worrying about spilling it on the carrier, or into the diaper bag. I felt gloriously unencumbered. I wondered if the barista could see it on my face. |
I felt high on productivity all day — until midafternoon, when I grew tired, and a little sad. I missed the warmth of my child against my chest. I decided to call it a day around 4, and started the 20-minute walk home. About halfway there, I saw a phalanx of fire trucks and ambulances traveling in the direction of my building. Immediately, I assumed that something had happened to my baby, and I broke into a sprint. I ran the rest of the way home, and entered my apartment, panting, to find her sleeping soundly in her bassinet with the nanny nearby, nothing amiss. |
| It is just great to get away from Sam. At first. At first it makes me feel like Zorba the Greek. But then the jungle drums start beating and I feel like you do when you’re having a massive nicotine craving. This week, I sat alone in a theater watching this totally dumb movie, this warm perfumed poopoo, but happily overeating in the dark, totally happy to be away from Sam, for about twenty minutes. Then the longing to be with him again became so intense that I sat there hyperventilating. There was a ten-minute patch of time when I must have looked like I was doing Lamaze. I felt like I was totally decompensating. I finally had to leave, get an ice cream, and walk around town for a few minutes. |
This push-pull — wanting to get away, wanting to come back — will never end. For me it got quieter and quieter as time went by, and now it’s the faintest beating, barely audible, most of the time. But there are those fleeting moments at work when I just want to run home and hug my kids, mash my face into my 3-year-old’s cold, smushy cheek after she comes in from outside. I hope those moments never fully go away. |
| Parenting can be a grind. Let’s celebrate the tiny victories. |
| My 13-month-old will only let me put socks on her if I smell her toes first and say, “Pee eww!” — Emily McMartin, Vancouver |
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