The Working Mom Chronicles: 'Night Terror'
By Amanda Blackwood (Guest Blogger)
I lay in bed. Eyes closed. Hands clenched. A cold chill sweeping over my body, listening for the sound to repeat. I could have sworn that I had heard it, the light shuffling that always precludes a spiral into hell.
I looked over at my husband still tucked in, safe and sound, oblivious to the situation unfolding around us. I glanced at the alarm, 3:07am it said in glowing red two inch numbers that cut through the dark room like lasers demanding your attention and reminding you that you are awake when you shouldn’t be.
This is the witching hour. The hour when all respectable people are safely asleep, wrapped in a warm blanket of pleasant dreams and the illusion of security.
After ten minutes had passed and content that I had imagined the noises I rolled over, my back to the glare of the clock and settled back down to get one more hour of sleep before I had to get up to make the 6:20am flight out of Sacramento.
I remembered that I had forgotten to iron the new skirt I picked up at Nordstrom rack. I smiled to myself as a I remembered that due to my torturous diet of raw foods and fresh pressed juices I had dropped some weight lately and was back in my high school size. I can’t say that everything is in the same place on my body exactly but hey, when a size four is on the hanger I’ll take it.
The day was going to be a long one. I had procrastinated on my flights. A San Diego work day for me usually entails hopping on the 6:20am out of Sacramento to make it to a 9:00am check in with a vendor.
I do a working lunch with Marketing, and drinks in the afternoon with our CFO, and then I head home on the 4:10pm . Due to a complete lack of organization I was flying home at 9:10pm as that was all that was left when I booked it in panic the day before.
Sitting at the beach working on my app project with a bourbon in hand didn’t seem like a bad way to spend a Friday evening so I wasn’t too concerned about it but was aware that I needed as much sleep as possible to make it through the day.
Within minutes I felt it. A shiver went down my spine. There it was. The Sound.
The hair stood up on the back of my neck as I realized how close it was to by body, naked and vulnerable under the sheets. I could feel the warm breathe on my back. I became aware of the shuffling on the brown carpet just a few feet away.
Ignore it, I said to myself. Don’t open your eyes. If you don’t look at it, it’s not really happening. It might just go away.
That’s when it all became too real. I felt the sheets begin to slip from my legs, being slowly pulled from the bed.
My eyes open and mouth closed I glared at my husbands back silently begging for help. I willed him to wake up, to see what was happening, to save me from my fate.
I felt the bed begin to sink down as weight was pressing on the edge. That is when I knew I had to face it.
I summoned all of the energy that I had and slowly turned over. I opened my eyes and looked into the face of my assailant.
Red hair swirled wildly around her face as her bright blue eyes peered into mine.
“I gotta go potty mommy. It’s poops.”
And so the day begins…
As a working mom there is a lot that falls on your shoulders. Your attention is often on the most pressing and current need in front of you. The best laid plans are meaningless when a sick kid, a crying baby, or a potty training toddler needs you right then regardless of what adult responsibilities demand your time.
If this story tells you anything let it be that no matter how hard you try to keep it all perfectly aligned, behind the scenes the life of a working mom is a ten pound bundle of crazy in a five pound bag.
So give yourself a break when you wear the same yoga pants three days in a row or eat a Dinobuddy off of a plate that’s been sitting out for two days.
That’s real life and I’d rather have real life than none at all.
Guest Blogger Amanda Blackwood is a Wife + (Mom(2)) + Coach + Entrepreneur / Leadership x (Bourbon) = Me. Call me. I’ll help you out. Or not. It will be worth it either way.
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