Dear Reese,
Your cheeks are porcelain-doll rosy and dry to the touch. All this dry air is cracking my fingers and roughening your signature soft baby skin. But we put lotion on and celebrate that — even though we woke up to 12 degrees below zero (with a wind chill at 33 below, my god) — our heat is working again. We sleep tonight without space heaters or electric blankets. I put the humidifier as close as I dare to your crib to add a little moisture in the air.
No daycare today — they follow the school district calls and the extreme cold warning kept all kids home in the county. This means I had to call my parents yesterday with a gentle plea to drive home from their Madison visit a few hours earlier than planned so they could babysit you this afternoon. I have very good parents. And the smile on your face when you see MorMor & Cappi — incredible.
I would have much rather stayed with you all day, but my anxiety spiked at the thought of even those missed hours of work in the morning. There was too much necessary today, too much that couldn’t wait without me dropping balls the rest of the week. I fear that stigma of new moms returning to work — that people will see my changed capacity and priorities as limiting.
My team has been beautifully supportive of my entire parenting journey, but occasionally my boundaries rub against the reality of peers who work nights and weekends. There is an invisible expectation that those extra hours are needed for executive-level work. But I have always been someone who makes the most of the hours I have (and someone who cannot tolerate extended night and weekend work for very long before growing resentful). With my time constrained, my focus increases, and I seem to get just as much done.
Today I listen to Lo-Fi Girl playlists and curl into the heated blanket draped over my lap while I create manager training decks and review job competencies. By the end of the day, I feel mostly back on track.
And it must have given me more energy because this evening I cook for you. I know, me, cooking. I make myself two one-eyed sailors with the best bread in the world. It’s called Bee Hive White from a bakery in downtown Neenah. My parents picked a loaf up on their way home this morning. MorMor discovered that bakery when you were born — it’s nearby the hospital — and I’ve been craving that bread ever since.
For you, I cook a plain omelet and cut it into strips so you can grip it yourself. I don’t know how much goes into your gut, but I think you like it. More than the banana I keep offering you multiple times a week. Just try it one more time, darling. Bananas are good.
We share a raspberry chocolate whole milk yogurt for dessert. It was decadent — I picked up this Yoplait brand Oui of French-style yogurt (whatever that means) at Piggly Wiggly yesterday. I only got it because I heard your Aunt Amanda wanted whole milk yogurt for your cousin when they visited last month. And she pays a lot more attention to nutrition than I do.
You seemed to enjoy this too — you leaned forward for more after smearing the first pink dollop all over those rosy cheeks. Tomorrow I’ll give you the plain yogurt and mix in peanut butter.
Love,
Mama