Unexpected

So many surprises, since Nora arrived in my life.

The biggest one, lately, being that I care not a whit about my professional life anymore. That is to say - my heart isn't in it. I want to be home. I want to be with Baby Love. I want that to be my daily work. I never thought I'd feel this way - I though I'd be relieved to have an office to escape to, eager for the adult interaction, fulfilled by feeding my titled-and-salaried self with this position I've worked toward for, well, forever. My work is not only the culmination of three previous, progresssively more responsible and expert positions. I can actually track it back farther than that - I was doing this writerly, editorial, creative publication type work in kindergarten, when I made books out of colorful felt and notepaper and sold them to my grandparents.

My resume is in really good shape. (Well, barring the fact that I once thought I'd be a fancy advertising writer or magazine editor in New York ... my work now isn't nearly that glamorous, but, you know.) My salary is the only reason we could buy a house, a house that I love, in a neighborhood that I love. I look around the rooms sometimes, and I feel breathless at the idea that I actually live in them. It isn't fancy or big, it's 90 years old and has terribly creaky floors and all the windows are painted shut, but it's mine and it has cute built-in cabinets and a big front porch and it feels like home. Especially now that Baby lives in it with us. It's the warmest, coziest, happiest time in my life, right now. I never expected this.

And that's the conundrum. I want to wake up early, to look at Baby's bright little eyes peering at me from the bedside bassinet, and stretch my arms in the rumply sheets, and put on the kettle for tea, and throw in a load of laundry while the oatmeal simmers, and snuggle Baby's neck against my nose, put her clean, small clothes on the shelves, slide her into her bouncy seat and turn on the sewing machine for a few quick whirs on the latest project, put her down for a nap while I sweep the crumbs from the kitchen floor, warm her bottle, give her "second breakfast" when she wakes, bundle her into the stroller for a walk to the market for the ingredients to make a bubbly pot of soup for when husband gets home, balance the checkbook, bounce the fussy baby, and so on and son on ... tending and nurturing all the little corners of our life ... holy sweet jesus, I really never, ever expected to be tormented by visions of domestic work. Hard work, I know. Sometimes repetitive and frustrating work, yes. But so is my office job. And at home, I'd be taking care of the true loves of my life, and know that I am really building the things that matter, and that will last. Solid, warm, certain, loved citizens of the world.

And then I read a couple of mama blogs (like this one or this one) wherein they've made it possible for themselves to be Mamas at Home ... and I want to cry with jealousy.

And I have it pretty easy, so far. I can see Baby every day at lunch. Work isn't demanding extra time from me. I have Fridays at home. I know that eventually I'll be really glad that I kept my retirement plan and my salary and my up-to-date professional qualifications. I know that my work away from the house is providing critical components of our lives, and Baby's future security. Being a breadwinner is so, so important. But I just can't deny this bursting desire to be back in my nest, every day. It's getting harder, instead of easier, to leave her every morning.

Will it get easier?