working mother Archives - Rupert Approves

I got through pregnancy #1 like a true martyr. Every offer to help or assist me was met with a very firm ‘Ohforgodssake I’m pregnant, not disabled‘ chirp, and people soon realised I meant it. I was so exceptionally stubborn that I even went to work the day I was booked to go to hospital for my C section. I didn’t want anyone to think I wasn’t capable, up to it or god forbid that I ever showed the slightest bit of weakness.

And then, pregnancy #2 hit, and God laughed and laughed at me, because from day 1 I have been feeling shiiiter than shit. There have been no mass displays of public vomiting, or napping in my car at work, but it has genuinely felt like a 4 month hangover. I wake up each day with a raging headache, spend all day fighting fatigue and nausea and even the smallest deviation from a 9pm bedtime results in my barely functioning the next day. My brain is so stupid that I found myself Googling ‘second hand dogs’ yesterday and I’m so forgetful that I’ve been calling our new domestic worker ‘Susan’ since Monday.

Her name is Kelly.

If you had a friend, let’s call her ‘Sue’ and Sue told you that she was always achy, her feet were sore and she had debilitating migraines once a week, you would send Sue to the doctor right? Then, if Sue suddenly got searing muscle pains up her arse, blistering eczema on her eyelids, and cried at the drop of a hat, you’d then probably send her to another specialist of sorts. Now what if Sue forgot your name, left taps running throughout the house and complained of 24/7 nausea. Shame, poor Sue would have been booked into to see a psychologist and would probably be sitting in a very quiet room in a white padded coat by now. Also, if Sue started developing gas that could rival a Pepsi factory, you’d probably send her somewhere else – like to another room in the house.

So, hello word. I am Sue. And my pregnancy has been a 16 week hangover. Google even a third of preggy symptoms and Web MD will surely tell you you have several hours left to live. Goodbye Sue, you are dying, for absolute certain.

I’m not writing this for attention or sympathy, I’m just truly baffled at how, for centuries, women have got through this. Holy shit, I cant even watch a Game of Thrones episode without wondering how the Wildling lass is mopping up her leaky boobs minutes after birthing her fathers child, or how they even dared to attempt being knocked up in that heat, without the help of cold ginger ale ale and an aircon.

I am battling at work. My symptoms are superficial – compared to the horror stores I’ve heard – but I honestly sometimes high five myself at the end of the day for getting through it all. My tired is tired. I sat in the meeting the other day and am 112% convinced that I had fallen asleep, because suddenly I was being asked my opinion and had to play the worlds fastest game of charades, frantically reading body language and trying to view colleagues notes from across the table in order to try figure out what in holy hell was being discussed. I think I must have mumbled something relatively sane because everyone nodded and then moved on to the next topic.

So, a plea to all HR people out there, please can we incorporate some sort of ‘we promise to not fire you for doing dumb shit for the next 9 months‘ clause into our contracts. Also a ‘sick-but-not-sick-just-pregnant’ day or two wouldn’t hurt either.

So, I’m going to go now, and close my eyes for a long blink and dream about the days when I had the energy to wipe my own arse after using the toilet. Except, who am I kidding. I’m pregnant. I haven’t had a shit since before conception.

Kid, you and me, we’ve been inseparable these past four months. Even before that, when you were physically a part of me for 38 weeks and 4 days. From the second you were born, your body has always found a way to be connected with mine. From the way you rested on my chest, just seconds after taking your first breath, to the way your fingers will always find mine. When you sleep, you curve your proud little chest into me, and when you wake, your hands swat my face in play.

I’ve always battled to be without you. Not in a ‘helicopter parent’ kind of way, but because I miss you when you’re not around. From the very beginning, being your mom has been my proudest role. I love how we read each other, and how happy you always are to see me (although, you’d smile at a brick wall if given a chance and I’ve watched you flirt with anything with a face, so I guess you’re not quite at the monogamous stage just yet.). Even when you were tiny, and the pain meds from my C section forced me to sit on the loo for hours on end, you would always be nestled on the bed within earshot, whilst I coo’d sweet nothings from behind the closed door, holding back tears of pain. Soon after, I stopped taking the meds altogether.

Maternity leave for me, albeit not ‘leave’ in the true sense of the world, has been the most intense four months of my life. You have come pretty much everywhere with me. Ive 4×4’d your pram up steps to friends houses, I’ve plopped you in a Pick n Pay trolley to buy groceries and you’ve experienced the sounds of the bush house more than once. You come to the gym with me 3 days a week, and you watch me from the floor of the kitchen while I make dinner.

I wont lie, at times I’ve dreamt of a nanny, to help relive my aching arms at the end of a long day, to watch you for “just 5 minutes” so I could shave my legs or to unscrew the lid of your bottle when my hands were needed for rocking you, but we can’t afford one (have you seen the price of education?). I’m proud of the way that we’ve done this together, you and me. Thank you for your patience when I nearly let you fall off the changing mat, or when I placed you in a way-too-warm bath. You’ve made this easy for me.

Tomorrow, I go back to work. I’m trying to rationalise with myself that I’m not a bad mom. That me leaving you for a full day in the care of strangers is acceptable. That this will make you a well rounded boy, and that you will know that it wasn’t without severe deliberation or self blame. The thing is, a part of me wants to go back to work. My brain has fossilised these past 4 months. My friend Sheena and I (also a new mom) laugh about our ‘mum dumb’ daily. I love my job, I’m excited to see my colleagues and meet my new team. I’m excited to reunite with my favourite client, and push myself again. I am happiest after a busy day and I hope you know that you will always still be the favourite part of my day, and that when I see you, it will always be the best of me. I know that your new creche teachers and carers are going to fall into the Carter trap. You’re bloody cute, and everyone who meets you is taken in by your comical smile and sweet nature. I know you’re going to a place where you will be treated with love and care. Your two cousins are some of the greatest kids I have met – and I know that the school will help you get here too.

I also know that there’s a good chance that the only thing I’m going to achieve tomorrow is trying not to spend half the day in the bathrooms, sobbing. That I’m going to be looking at my watch every hour, counting down the minutes until I can fetch you from creche. That if Eskom initiates load shedding and I get stuck on Jan Smuts, that you may be visiting your mom in a state prison.

I also know that in a weeks time, and a months time, I probably wont cry anymore. And that in a few years time, you would rather be at school with your new friends, than stuck at home with ‘boring dad and me’.

Kid, you are going to be so great. So am I. We are not the first mom, nor the first baby to have to do this. In fact, I have a feeling being a working mom is going to help me more. You’ve given me a new found strength and set of balls. I want to work for me, and for you. I’m working so that I can be an employable and well rounded person, and so you can get that fancy new cricket bat when you need one.

So, while I may feel like the worst mother in the world today, I know I’m not. I also know that when it matters, I will be there for you. I’m going to be at your parent teacher days, and your first swimming lesson. I’m going to embarrass the shit out of you at your first athletics day, and your art is going to drip off every available surface of my fridge.

Here’s to new things, kid. But please, just always remember, if you have a bakerman day at school, your mom bloody better get that first cupcake.