When once my house was organized and easily defined with what belonged in which room, it is now no more. I sit in these early morning hours with a sheet on the couch, a blanket, pillow, my phone, and my laptop. There is a bib on the armchair, along with a burp rag. Coffee sits in a cooled cup on the table, lukewarm at best. I try hard not to stare at the dust collecting in one corner.
Three months ago, a messy living room would have annoyed me, poking nagging reminders to clean before it got even worse. But this morning, it's hardly noticeable. I am so very happy. There is a sweet baby in the room, happily sucking on his pacifier, swaddled snugly in his "spaceship," as my husband and I like to call it. It gently moves from side to side, and I've picked the "car ride" setting. I hear my son's quiet sleep-laugh, and I smile. In my entire life, I never thought I'd sit here like this. I never thought I'd have children. I never thought I was mommy material. How wrong I was.
Only one thing darkens this moment. My notebook. It's open to a page filled with scribbles and outlines almost illegible, notations in the margins, check marks and cross-outs. It's the list of nannies.
I dread the notebook. It means I have to pick someone. Someone else who will take care of my son during the day. Someone else who will feed him when he's hungry and hold him when he cries. It means I have to go back to work soon. And even though I work from home, going back to work still means eight-hour days of conference calls, audits, project planning, and worst of all, traveling. Overnights in hotels, far away from the new little love of my life.
And so I absolutely must find the right person for my son, the perfect one, that "someone else" who will be the "next-best-thing-to-mommy-and-daddy" that a person can be. Is it possible? I'm sure it is, but... I just don't want to. I want it to just be me and my husband, and that's it. "Someone else" has a lot to live up to.
