WARNING - This post contains references to cows, milk and other motherly things (such as nursing). Yeah thats right cows. So if you are sensitive to any of the above skip this one.
Holy Cow Moment 2: Contrary to my infants belief I am not open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I am struggling to find my me time and thanks to her, in her tiny eyes I do not have, nor should I get, any. It’s like I’m a sweat shop dairy farm (if there ever could be such a thing) – I suddenly feel for the cows that live day in and day out in a stall. That being said I still cherish my time with my child and I like my right to choose to nurse but after dealing with men at work I am now officially over whatever modesty might have remained after the birthing experience. (For those woman who have never experienced this portion of life don’t worry you can still laugh – just envision a cow.)
I am a working mom, be it right or wrong I am not here to argue about it. My company has a room set aside called a “mother’s room” great idea right? In theory it’s awesome, small uncomfortable couch, tiny fridge that something might have died in and on a good day a jet engine of a fan, which whirls not stop, has yet to take off. Sounds great right? Well for me it is, except when I have to fight for the key. I’m sure you are now imagining a couple of mom’s going at it out over a key, but really it was more like one mom and five men going round and round over today’s best communication network , E-mail. Ah E-mail I love the, except when everything gets misconstrued, can take hours to get responses and all while the mom in question is getting ready to blow up – literally. Yes I was getting mad, yes I was ready to punch one of the MEN in the face but I was literarily going to blow like those shoes back in the day you could pump until it could take no more and Poof no more functioning shoe. TMI right?
So here’s the story, apparently a crap couch, tiny fridge, a deafening noise and four walls needs to be locked up like fort knocks. Who knew? To get into the mother’s room there are qualifications and I thought I had them all. I was apparently wrong. It took me three hours and five men later and a threat of confidentiality and several other choice words to get a key but only after I found that the GUY guarding the key went to the same elementary school with me, small world right. Why the 5 men you ask? Well one guy referred me to the next and the next and the next until I ended up with the first again who then gave me another name (the one who actually controls the key – NOVEL CONCEPT), non were woman. Now that everyone knows my business why don’t they just join me? I mean if this is such a “sacred choice” and this room is highly coveted that they can’t allow a key to an obviously desperate mother why not just join the party. It is official I have no modesty or dignity left.
“Motherhood is so beautiful” – whoever actually said that adopted, had a maid and nanny. Today I have a crusty section of hair – thank you child of mine for spitting up in it before I left for work and too bad I didn’t notice it since I have become immune to the smell.