I love Samantha Bee, the Daily Show correspondent. She pretty much has my life married to a funny guy who she performs with, loving mom who juggles work and home life except that she actually makes a living and I’m wondering what to do about health care when my COBRA runs out. But, you know, other than that twinsies.
But right now I want to fly across the country and pick her up by her lapels and ask what the he’ll she’s talking about.
Because in this month’s Working Mother magazine, she’s asked when she found the time to write her book while working for The Daily Show and, you know, being a mom to three. And this is what she said:
“I tucked into the writing when I found time. I’d write at night. Or I’d write on my laptop while I was nursing.”
As Super Grover says, “Huh buh WHA?” Samantha? Do you know something I don’t know? Because right now I am frantically typing this post in the office/guest room, listening to my husband comfort my four-month-old and trying to gauge, from the level of her fussing, how imminently I have to run out there to nurse.
Sure, my husband could pass her in here and I could nurse her and then pass her back out. Except no, I can’t, because the two-year-old watches the door like a very short, featherless, Elmo-obsessed hawk. “Mommy work,” she says, when I head into the room. “Bye bye, Mommy. See you soon.” Then she checks the door about every half-hour till my three-hour stint is over, knocking with increasing urgency as the time goes on.
They say kids don’t have a sense of how much time has passed. I say, she’s got a stopwatch inside her that knows, to the minute, when I’m supposed to finish work, when the stepkids are supposed to show up, and when I need to poop. She’s no fool.
If I could nurse and type, oh! The places I could go! The deadlines I could meet! If you want to see an example of my typing while nursing, take a look at almost any of my emails the ones with “sent from my iPhone” at the bottom. Typing while nursing = almost no punctuation, few words, and random autocorrected words that render my writing more nonsensical than usual.
Hm. Now I feel like I should check her book for any weird phrases like “holy shut” or “what the he’ll.” (See what I did there?)
Are you Samantha Bee? Then get your butt down into my comments section and explain yourself. Is it a sling? A Moby? A handmaiden? Give me your secrets, woman!
Image via Simon and Schuster