Monday I go into work for the first time in three months. It seems like so much longer than that. And yet, not long at all. How long it’s been doesn’t matter.
What matters is that I’m a nervous wreck.
I haven’t been away from our boy (soon to be named, “Tank” because Wee One just DOES NOT apply anymore) since he was born. The longest I’ve left him was a run to the store, which I can see from my bedroom window. And on Monday, I’m expected to be away from him for 4 hours. Not 15 minutes. FOUR hours. And I’m beside myself. I start crying every time I think about it. Why?
Because my exclusive time with him is over and from here it’s just more time away and more separation. There will never be this time again. He’ll start depending on me less and before I know it he’ll grow up and move away. And I’m not ready for any of that.
Going back to work isn’t a big deal. Once I get caught up, I can work from home (for a few months, anyway). We need the insurance. So I’ll do what I have to do, because we need the money and the coverage.
But really, it’s what it symbolizes that rips my heart out. The little guy still needs me. I know this. But it still signals the end of something that I’m not ready to face. I have no choice, and I think that’s what hurts the most.
I really have no choice.