Back on the Scene, Like a Sex Machine

Well, sort of. Not really. But I'm definitely back on the scene.

I'm back to work. Work that I get PAID for. In cash money. Don't get me wrong, I love the payment for my other full time work; kisses, giggles and tickle time. But cash works too....

So I'm thrust again into the working world. I forget during my 16 month full time stay at home gig that the logistics are what can be so harrowing. Backpacks for the girls, filled with appropriate changes of clothes, diapers, wipes and hats. Clothing laid out for the next day. That matches (sorry honey). Lunch for oldest with Celiac, snacks too....juice cups filled with desired juice to water ratio, reminder notes for Dad to completely cover the girls with copious amounts of sunscreen and oh...my stuff, too. Thankfully I don't do the drop off duty, Daddy has picked up that role and relishes his time with the girls in the morning to make them super-special-Daddy-breakfasts.

But me? I get to go....to the gym. The gym! A real gym! A gym withOUT the gym daycare lady hunting me down to report that one or both of my girls has: pooped her drawers, threw up, not been able to stop crying and has therefore thrown up, or is simply just NOT interested in letting mom work out for more than 14 minutes. (They would enter the cardio room and all the moms {not just me!} would duck and hide. Seriously. You could see moms all around just tuck their chins down and start to pray...'not me, please don't come for me...').

So, you can see the lusciousness in a gym experience all for myself. IPOD on, tunes a-blasty blast....(ps, have you listened to The Who's Eminence Front lately? Good Lord) and not having to worry about anything. OK, maybe I think for a minute about putting the weights back on the shelf or wiping down my machine.

Or how my posterior looks when I realize I'm stretching in front of a huge wall-sized mirror. (But not really).

I get shower time and dress (and makeup!) time without worrying about the toddler putting her toothbrush in the potty. Or the other toddler trying to 'reorganize' Daddy's shaving kit. I get to wear grown up nice work clothes. The only misstep was when I mistakenly used my mini-Febreze travel bottle for hair spray the other day. My hair didn't stay, but man was I ever fresh.

And you know, unless you've been home for a portion of time, you forget how this really feels. Most of the time when I was working I couldn't wait to get home, take off fancy mcbusiness wear and put on my comfies. I've been in comfies now for 16 months, and I needed me some Ann Taylor, stat.

So I get all purdied up with business shoes and concealer and I talk to grownups. All day! I talk about work stuff, home stuff, just....stuff. Stuff that comes from a part of my brain that was ready for the match strike again, ready to talk the talk and (with business shoes) walk the walk. So it's only part time. But it's my part time. And as soon as I walk out the door, the Mommy hat is on again and I'm humming Pop Goes the Weasel, anxious to get home to my girlies and get on my comfies.