Farewell #GirlBossEra, Hello to Life at Home
Who girl bossed too hard and is now starting their mornings with emails like:
"Good morning"
"Just following up"
"Can we schedule a meeting next week to discuss further…?"
Instead of sipping coffee while gazing at overgrown grass near the little white chicken coop—the one I convinced my husband to add black shutters to two weekends ago. Maybe a mailbox and flower box are next. My favorite girls deserve the best: Rose, Blanche, and Dorothy.
After breakfast, I’ll throw on my baby wrap so we can refill the water, feed the hens, and gather their eggs. I can’t wait until my little one can slip into some muck boots and waddle around with the hens, giggling and exploring this little slice of heaven.
Breakfast… hmm. Maybe warm strawberry compote, cream cheese, and sourdough. The loaf in the fridge is ready to bake.
Ope, baby’s crying.
"I’m coming, my love. Just a second! Okay, shh, Mama’s here. Good morning, baby. Oh, you’re so sweet. Okay, okay, let’s sit on the porch so you can have milkies."
“The breeze feels nice this morning. Look—a butterfly. Hold on, okay, I know you’re hungry. Shh, shh, there you go.
I’m obsessed with you.”
On today’s agenda:
Preheat the oven.
Feed the sourdough starter.
Score the loaf, and pop it in to bake.
Change a diaper.
Shower.
Find my flowy sundress that makes breastfeeding easy because pants are still the enemy. (My postpartum body isn’t there yet, but everything heals with time, right?)
Once the sourdough’s lid comes off, we’ll have another 20 minutes.
That’s enough time to visit the girls—breakfast for them, fresh eggs for us.
By the time we’re done, the loaf will be ready to cool.
Warm strawberry compote drizzled over cream cheese on a hunk of fresh, warm sourdough. Omg, I actually can’t even.
Oh wait, yes I can, because this is absolutely a fairy tale. Reality?
Six weeks postpartum.
"Grabbing a stale piece of week-old banana bread—leftovers from the postpartum meal train—on my way to daycare."
My pants didn’t fit, but I didn’t have time to shop, so I wore my longest sweater and hoped for the best. Daycare drop-off—that was new. Would I cry? Would she cry? Would I make it through the day?
Eight hours plus two commutes. Four pumps in a storage closet. Thirsty all day. Seven refills at the water jug. Ten bathroom trips because I can no longer hold my pee.
Do I even go back? Stay home? We need the money. The new car payment is outrageous, but at least it’s safe in winter.
"It’s okay, honey. Mama will be back in 10 hours."
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
Good morning,
I hope this email finds you well.
I will not be returning to work.
Sincerely,
