When You Don't Know What You're Doing, It's Best To Do It Quickly

Worry could have been my middle name. I worry about anything and everything. I stay up at night worrying about worrying, and then when there is nothing to worry about, I worry about that. I am a human version of Chicken Little, with whom I have always felt a bit of a connection. He had a legitimate concern. Although the sky may not have literally been falling, in his world it was crashing down and that is definitely something to worry about.

If I thought I worried before, nothing compares to the worries I have now that I have my very own little baby to raise. She keeps me up at night, both literally and figuratively. 

I don't just worry about tomorrow. I am constantly fretting over what will happen in two weeks, five months, ten years. I enjoy bringing up my concerns with my husband right as we are going to bed, which he does not enjoy and usually dozes off as I am mid worry rant. So, naturally, I worry that we don't talk enough about the things that worry me most.

This is a laundry list of the things I am most worried about at the moment. I am leaving off quite a few items so as not to overwhelm you.

I worry the baby is not gaining enough weight, and then I worry I feed her too much.

I worry that she doesn't like bananas. For crying out loud baby, bananas are delicious!

I worry when she doesn't fight me when I put her to bed at night. 

I worry when she fights me when I put her to bed at night.

I worry when she sleeps through the night, and when she doesn't I worry that she never will.

I worry that I am not absorbing every moment I have with her because I am too tired, too distracted, too busy worrying about what is going to happen next.

I worry that she thinks the only clothes I own are yoga pants.

I worry that I don't worry enough.

I worry about that my husband and I are way too into talking about the baby's poop. We talk about poop with genuine interest over dinner. It's disgusting and fascinating.

Now that the baby is mobile, I worry just about every second that she is going to get injured on my watch. I envision the courtroom proceedings as the mean old prosecutor tells the jury, "She put the baby to bed and then made herself a vodka tonic as if nothing was wrong." I'll be splattered all over 20/20, Dateline and 60 Minutes and yes, as you can see, I worry about that.

I worry when I enjoy being at work.

I worry that this nanny thing is working out. 

I worry that if I get a babysitter on the weekend I am a horrible mother because she was with the nanny all week. No date night for mommy and daddy, unless you count a rushed dinner and binge watching Homeland as romantic.

I worry that her first word will be "nanny."

Scratch that. I actually worry that her first word might be of the four letter kind, as I have been horrible about watching my language around her sweet baby ears.

I worry that I cram a 40 hour work week into 22 hours so that I can spend more time with her, and then I worry that because I am rushing through work I am failing professionally.

I worry that when I have to put in longer hours at work, I am failing as a mother.

I worry that because I stretch myself so thin, I am bound to drop the ball at any moment. That once I screw up, a domino effect will ensue and my carefully stacked house of cards will come crashing down.

I worry about the way having a baby has changed the dynamic of most of my relationships.

I worry that all of this worrying is causing premature gray hairs and wrinkles. Oh wait, that's actually not just a worry. That's a reality for this girl.

I worry that I forget everything. I trail off mid sentence. This mommy brain thing has me worried that I am suffering from an early onset of Alzheimers.

I worry about school districts and what her musical taste will be when she is a teen. God help me if we don't share a similar love for the banjo.

Then there is my husband. That sweet man with a head full of zzz's, who falls asleep the minute his head hits the pillow. Who doesn't even worry about what is happening in the next hour, let alone tomorrow or the next ten years. I worry about his life of bliss. Who does that?! 

Whenever I answer something with "No worries," the irony is not lost on me. No worries exists in the land of every little thing is gonna be alright. And yet, despite my atrocious number of neurotic worries, it seems that for now, maybe although every little thing isn't perfect, it really might be alright.

"It's not that I'm lazy - It's that I just don't care."

I am not the first woman and will certainly not be the last to find herself asking the question all mothers must ponder at the end of maternity leave. Is going back to work really worth it? I am engaged in an internal argument that has reached a devisive stalemate where both sides of me are glaring at each other making snarly faces. I waffle back and forth between going back to an unfulfilling job that ultimately has become a necessary evil or cut way back in order to spend my days cleaning up spit up, changing dirty diapers, negotiating nap time with a four month old (a no win situation), and dealing with the daily routine of satisfying the most disgruntled of customers. The payoff from the former comes in that glorious paper form, holding me hostage with golden handcuffs. The latter payoff comes from that toothless smile, that Beevis and Butthead giggle, that look in her eye I don't see often enough but tells me I am the center of her universe.

In a little more than a week, I will be faced with daily workplace issues that no longer seem important. When the boss man demands that report by COB in a voice that rivals the drone of the Office Space manager, I will be thinking not of the numbers and deadlines but rather what I am going to do with Bug to make up for my absence all day. When the nanny tells me about how they went to the park or how she is sitting up all on her own, I won't be thinking about the people I trained how to eFile their court documents, I will be throwing my proverbial fist in the air cursing the decisions I was forced to make.

photo courtesy of www.perfectlycursedlife.com

I live in a beautiful area, but I pay dearly for that Southern California sunshine. The obnoxious mortgage payments, the ridiculous property taxes, the constant hamster wheel of make money spend money make money spend money makes a woman's right to choose between a career outside the home and building a life within the home almost impossible. Instead it becomes a delicate balancing act, a precise dance, a constant battle to keep from dropping the ball in one area or the other. I always thought that I would welcome a return to the workforce. I didn't realized just how pricey a little slice of the American Dream can be. I never saw myself as a stay at home mother but now, faced with the very real thought of missing eight hours of Bug time a day, I find myself almost paralyzed at the prospect.

No one ever said this whole kid thing was going to be easy and sweet Jesus, it sure isn't. There are moments in the very long hours home with Bug when I think holy hell, what have I done. I can't run out the door for a last minute yoga class, my postpartum hair is in desperate need of a new style for which I don't have the time, and don't even get me started on the long overdue pedicure that has been haunting me. But to even consider a life different than that which I have chosen, to be the mother of the most perfect baby girl, is ridiculous to even think about. And though mothers go back to work all the time and grapple with the very same issue, it just doesn't seem fair to anyone.

So heat up that coffee and prescribe some Valium, because come January 21 this girl is going to need it.