Dear Self of Last Year,
Oh, dumb girl. I know. It's tough.
You've made it through the first month of working full-time and it's still really, really tough.
I know you feel exhausted and overextended. You feel like a failure. The futility of pumping and the dwindling milk supply. The mistakes, the typos, the meetings you can barely stay awake for. The short temper, the sigh of relief at Noah's bedtime, and the crushing guilt over not enjoying every moment you spend with him. I know that you dread tomorrow, because it's going to start all over again.
I know you feel like you're missing out -- that you'd give anything to rewind all those hours and see what you missed. I know you think that if you could just stay home it would all be different. That you'd never miss another moment. That you'd learn to not even blink, lest he grow up too fast.
I know the love you feel for that baby has knocked you senseless. That it's the most wonderful, marvelous thing you've ever felt and you're compelled to constantly try to put it into words. I know you're frustrated with the limits of the English language because you just can't quite hammer your writing into the proper shape. So you keep writing, and trying, and it all falls so desperately short of what you really feel. This primal, desperate love burns through your chest and tingles out through your fingertips as you furiously tap at the keyboard in vain, day after day, entry after entry.
But here's the thing...
Fuck all that, get a grip, and please blog about something useful, like where you put the motherfucking ice scraper for the car, okay? Jesus.
Self of This Year, Who Had to Use Her Arm and Some of the Dry-Cleaning to Brush Several Inches of Snow Off the Car to Get to Gymboree This Morning
PS: ALSO, WHERE THE HELL ARE MY GLOVES?