My impressive resume

The cursor on the screen of my mobile phone flickers, and my sleeping toddler's chest rises and falls. I squint into a dark screen, savouring some quiet time. Carpe diem. This is it. Time to reclaim my selfhood and agency. Such ambitious endeavours usually entail various life-changing musings and decisions: Shall I gobble up a cookie after I type this paragraph? Take a bath? Do the laundry? Trim my nails? Oh, wait, what a great idea! Which ones should I trim first? Toenails or fingernails? 

I type, and the full moon hangs in the black sky to accompany my profound philosophical meanderings. I long for my writing muse, some poetic epiphany to seize me, where violins hum and cymbals clash. A  futile attempt, for my writing muscles have withered, their skeletal remains so frail that even an anorexic patient would gasp in envy. This blog post will be fun indeed. Will I be the most popular mom blogger? Probably not. Will I be making a fool out of myself? More likely. 

I have not strung sentences together since I gave birth to S. The glamorous career of full time mothering is after all, glamorous. Unsurprisingly, with a packed schedule that boasts of toddler teething meltdowns, soiled diapers, pasta strewn all over the floor, wet towels, mismatched socks, baggy shirts, and uncombed, grimy hair, my CV is clearly impressive. 

At the top of my game, I dress up in fine garments, or rather, t shirts stained with peanut butter and occasionally, a whiff of garlicky sweat. I frequent playgroup meetings, mingling with fellow socialites of high society who use high sounding words like "breastfeeding", "weaning", and "cosleeping". Together, we chant, with much ferocity, lines underscoring the importance of living a meaningful life: "the wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round", "Ms Polly had a dolly who was sick, sick, sick", "Sleeping little bunny, sleep until it's noon. Shall we wake it with a merry tune."

So, what else shall I say at my next job interview to address the chasm in my resume? Expound the necessities of breastfeeding? Proclaim that baby led weaning is gold standard? Demonstrate my prowess in changing a toddler's diaper with one hand and bending like the hunchback of Notre Dame to grab her with the other hand as she wriggles away? I could add, with the seriousness of a scholar, in response to a question on my future aspirations in five years, that perhaps, someday, I shall be awarded a Fellowship for ambidexterity. 

I stop typing to examine my hands and assess the veracity of my pompous assumptions. But S turns in her cot and it creaks, breaking my reverie. Uh oh, is she waking up soon? Maybe I should stick to modest musings that pertain to the mundane specifics of sleep training and independent self soothing. Then, S becomes still again. I sneak a peak. She sleeps on her back. Her eyes, tightly shut, become dark slits. Her mouth opens like a little clam in wonder of grandiose, half manic delusions. Her head, tilted, presses against her stuffed snake toy. 

All of a sudden,  her eyelids fly open. S sits up and whimpers. She awakens! I stuff my phone under a pillow and sit on it. The phone vibrates, sending tremors throughout the bed. Ugh. The show must go on, even if there is an earthquake. S reaches out to me from the cot, her fleshy arms spread out in the air, her shrieks sharp as arrows, her face wrinkled in pink dismay, as if to say, Mama, why the delay? 

My baby, I am here! I tuck my hands under my toddler's armpits.  Her neck was once wobbly jelly. Tonight, I lift her from the cot, her head upright, my tiny, red-faced queen of the night. I embrace her in solemn reverence. Her breath still smells like caramel. She searches for my breast to nurse before falling asleep on my chest.

I guess it'll be okay if I didn't have a glittering resume to boot.