My Adorable Career-Killer: A Letter to My Second BabyAlice Gomstyn
My dearest four-month-old Scrunchy Face,
Given your precocious interest in current events — I base this assessment on that time your eyes opened widely when the evening news appeared on TV — I am certain you are aware of the rekindled debates over women’s success in the workplace. You may also have learned about a study showing that when working moms leave their jobs, they do so largely after the birth of a second child.
I’ve never considered myself trendy — I remember owning a snap bracelet once, but that was about it — but it appears, my darling infant, I am a part of this long-running trend, as are you. Statistically speaking, you may be my career-killer.
But do not fret, my little butterball. Take comfort in knowing that you had a great deal of help in pushing mommy off the professional ladder: your big brother Saucer Eyes played a big hand in it all.
It started when Saucer Eyes still resided in utero and your father and I moved to the suburbs to be closer to extended family (read: free babysitting). Much to my surprise, no one greeted us with a helipad adjacent to our house for easier commuting. Instead, I resigned myself to riding the bus day in and day out, the long, nausea-inducing trip hampering my ability to respond to important emails about who left something to putrefy in the communal office fridge.
Then, after your brother was born, the demanding little string bean insisted on having someone put him to bed every night, rather than simply warming his own milk bottle and climbing into his crib alone. What nerve! Since mommy has proven herself a rather poor player of rock-paper-scissors, this nighttime task fell to her, forcing her to leave the office at the ungodly hour of 6:00 p.m.
And there was the whole issue of Saucer Eyes supposedly needing to eat regularly, leaving mommy pumping at the office. Pumping, my dear, took precious time away from gossiping at the water cooler, rolling my eyes during endless meetings and other essential work responsibilities.
You did manage to make your own contribution early on, however. Prenatal appointments and ultrasounds led mommy to leave the office for more than an hour at a time. Why you couldn’t just tap out “I’m OK” in Morse code in my uterus now and again, I still don’t understand.
And now you are here, flashing your mischievous grin, reminding me of crappy bosses everywhere who may smile on you one moment and then poop all over you the next…
I must admit, I far prefer your poop to theirs.
I may feel differently once you’re a teenager, but let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.
Your trendy mommy
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