[Author’s Note: At the time of writing, it seems that Orientalis is going to have multiple nicknames. Bo refuses to budge from “Ori”; Taylor and I tend to use “Rhys”; and Aza alternates among “Ori”, “Rhys”, and “Rhys-y Boy.” I’ll predominantly employ “Rhys” in this story, but will use the others as appropriate in dialogue.]
Once upon a time, Taylor and I worked at the same company. (But, in very different departments.) I was quite pregnant with our first child, and as my due date approached, we casually discussed whether I ought to turn my temporary position into a more permanent one.
Many factors led us to decide against such a move — not least of which was our feeling that God was calling me to stay home with our kids. But, our decision was also strongly influenced by another consideration: my theoretical maternity leave. Since I had worked at the company for less than six months, I would receive only the same amount of parental leave as did Taylor — and that amount was zero.
Thus, when Borealis was born one Thursday evening, I was already on an extended period of unpaid leave. (Which is to say, I had amicably resigned.)
Taylor, meanwhile, had to burn through the nine days of PTO built up during my pregnancy. He took off the Friday following Bo’s birth and the subsequent workweek. Then, with only three days remaining, he judiciously metered out half-days for the next couple of weeks.
After that, I was mostly on my own. My husband returned to his old career, and I commenced my new one — and let me tell you, it didn’t feel like a natural fit.
[Note: How This Blog Got Its Name comes to mind as supporting evidence here.]
Fast-forward nearly two years, to November 2019. Most things remained the same: I still traveled mostly-alone on my motherhood journey; I still felt judged for my youth; I still struggled with life direction; and I still lived in the same house.
However, one thing had changed: now, Taylor was afforded two weeks of paid paternity leave. I, of course, would continue my unbroken streak of unpaid leave.
Only, those two theoretical weeks didn’t quite pan out. Unfortunately, Australis arrived during an especially busy segment of Taylor’s work project, and his time “off” was thus peppered with urgent emails and texts. (And when he wasn’t working remotely, we were watching CSPAN — so, you know, not exactly relaxing. I’ll never be able to un-see Jerry Nadler’s high-waisted pants.)
In the end, Taylor’s uninterrupted time “off” lasted exactly six days. Australis was born on a Wednesday; the following Tuesday, Taylor very apologetically left for a vital meeting that could not be rescheduled. (Alas, this was back in pre-pandemic days, when people actually flew across the country to attend in-person gatherings.) I, meanwhile, went to MOPS, which at least granted me respite from a particularly rambunctious Borealis.
The rest of Taylor’s paternity leave was doled out in sparing half days, so things were back to “normal” in what felt like no time.
Now, fast forward another two-and-a-half years, to present day. In a welcome development, lots of things have changed: I no longer lack companionship in my motherhood journey; I no longer feel young (and hence, feel no subsequent judgment thereof); I no longer struggle quite as much with life direction; and — ok, well, I am still in the same house.
One other thing has changed, too: mere months before Orientalis’s arrival, Taylor’s company tripled its paternity leave policy. Not zero weeks, not two weeks — now, it was a full six weeks.
Taylor was elated. And I was… realistic.
“How long do you think you’ll actually be able to take off?” I asked.
Taylor grimaced. “Uhhhh… maybe two full weeks, and then mostly half days after that?”
I nodded. It was more time than we’d had with either of our other newborns — and certainly more than most dads get. Even so, I was frustrated by the breakneck pace of Taylor’s project, which effectively precluded our even considering his taking off the full six weeks.
Although, I silently admitted, I’m not sure that either of us would survive his being home for so long.
Out loud, I assented, “Yeah, that sounds good. We’ll see how things go.”
But, by the time our son arrived, even Taylor’s conservative plan seemed like a stretch. The previous autumn, we had imagined that late April might be a time of ease and leisure. This spring, however, that fantasy was much less tenable.
Taylor’s team faced a perfect storm: in the midst of a seemingly unsolvable design snafu, all but one of the young systems engineers would be absent from work. We could hardly have picked a worse time for our son’s arrival.
But, arrive he did, and Taylor began what was intended to be a full two weeks at home. His sole remaining coworker kept the project rolling with admirable tenacity, but it was obvious that her temporary solitude weighed heavily on Taylor. He kept his phone continually on hand for emails and Teams messages.
Our second weekend with Rhys was bittersweet. On one hand, it was lovely: I was feeling better, and the five of us enjoyed our lazy days together. Rhys spent much of the time being “held” by his older siblings, both of whom seemed to instinctually understand their brother’s newborn fragility.
But, on the other hand, the writing was on the wall: Taylor wouldn’t stay home much longer. It wasn’t that his team needed his return. (Although, certainly, they wanted it.) It was more that, in the grisly calculus of life, his time as “Dad Taylor” had reached a point of diminishing returns. To maximize his overall output, he had to slowly resume the mantle of “Engineer Taylor” as well.
And so, that Tuesday, my husband slipped back into his business casual attire. I flashed him a sad smile as we loaded up the kids into our two cars and parted ways. Once again, I brought a newborn babe to MOPS, while Taylor dropped Bo off at preschool before continuing to the office.
In a way, we were *both* returning to work, since I’m on the leadership team for our MOPS group (reference To Email Anything Less Than My Best). Somewhat unexpectedly, it had fallen to me to facilitate that morning’s MOPS meeting — our last of the year. Accordingly, we would be preparing thank you notes and gift baskets by which to express our appreciation to our childcare workers.
Thankfully, a number of other members had brought goodies, so the gift baskets ended up lush and full. (Not surprisingly, lots of succulents and chocolate.)
The thank you notes, however, were a different story. The energy in the MOPS room was akin to that of the last day of school. Few people automatically heeded my instruction to sign the thank you notes — and thus, I found myself babysitting said notes, instead.
Where is Yolanda’s thank you note? Oh, a member signed it and then never passed it along. Why is this card so sparse? I see, it didn’t make it to that table. Ok, now where are the other two cards? Ah, under this coffee cup.
Finally, I had sealed the last thank you note and finalized the last gift basket. I slumped into my seat and grimaced at the feeling low in my abdomen.
Not great for healing, I chided myself silently. I was frustrated that such seemingly innocuous activity — merely shepherding thank you notes from table to table — could so effectively wear me out and partially undo my healing journey. I ought to have more intentionally requested help.
[Note: I am extremely bad at requesting help.]
Thus, by the time the meeting ended and I went to retrieve Aza from her childcare room, my mobility felt like a consumable resource — a rapidly-diminishing one.
I informed each of the childcare workers that their gifts awaited in the big room, then hung around long enough to ensure that all those gifts were retrieved. At that point, I begged permission to go home and leave all the clean-up to someone else — permission I was granted, much to my relief.
A few minutes later, we were out of the car and back in our house. About twenty minutes remained before we needed to go get Bo, which left just enough time for Aza to go potty, eat a quick snack, and decide that she was diametrically opposed to the idea of getting back in the car.
This was an unfortunate development. Every step felt like a fresh injury to my uterus, so I was loath to chase my daughter around the house. I pleaded; I threatened; I cried. She did not relent.
“No!” my daughter shrieked. “I don’t want to get Bo!”
I glanced at my phone in the desperate hope of seeing a text from Taylor — that work had wrapped up early, and he was already on his way to get Bo. But then I remembered that work never wraps up early, so I put my phone down and turned back to Aza.
“Look, baby. We gotta go get your brother. He literally cannot get home without us.”
She couldn’t counter this fact, so she gracefully pivoted instead, whimpering, “I need snuggles!” — or, as she says it, “nuggles”.
I groaned at the redirection, but nevertheless squatted down and pulled my flailing daughter into a firm squeeze. “Ok, now we really have to go get your brother.”
“I don’t want to!”
I took her hand and started to gently pull her toward the front door, at which point she collapsed to the ground like a pile of noodles.
This left me with basically one option. I shifted Rhys to my left arm, slithered my right under my daughter’s prone form, and gingerly staggered to the door.
“I want shoes!” Aza cried.
I scoffed. “No, baby. You’re not getting out of the car, so you don’t need shoes.”
“I want to get out of the car!”
“Uh, no.”
By this point, I had slipped on my Sperrys and pushed outside. I managed to pull open Aza’s door without dropping anyone — which is harder than it sounds — then deposited my daughter in her carseat with a hefty sigh of relief.
“Ok, stay here,” I told her. “I’m going to put Rhys in his carseat, and then I’ll come back and buckle yours.”
I gently closed her door, then shambled around to the other side of the car. Rhys had been drifting in and out of sleep, but the introduction to his carseat placed him firmly in the “awake” category. He blinked open almond-shaped eyes and looked in my general direction. After confirming that he was, indeed, out of my arms, he released a perfunctory cry — then another, then another.
“Great,” I muttered. The more, the merrier, right?
I circled back to Aza’s seat, only to find it absent. Instead, she stood in the middle seat, leaning over her baby brother. “I’m giving Ori a kiss,” she informed me.
I glanced at the time. “Baby, we have to leave — like, two minutes ago. Please get back in your seat.”
“No! I’m giving Ori kisses.”
I sighed and let ten interminable seconds crawl by. “Ok, now it’s time to get in your seat.”
“No!”
“Alright, then I’ll get you in your seat.”
I stretched into the car and grabbed my daughter, then pulled her screaming into her carseat. A few seconds and an exorcism later, she was buckled in, and we were finally ready to go.
Oh, and what a drive it was! The good thing was that Rhys had mostly calmed down; the bad thing was that Aza — quite determinedly — had not. She spent the drive screaming inarticulately — and when we arrived, she merely switched to screaming *articulately*.
“I want to come inside and get Borealis!”
I snorted. “Babe. I can’t bring you inside. You’re literally screaming right now.”
“No, I’m not!” she screamed.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. You’re going to stay here, and I’ll be right back.”
I ignored my daughter’s responding wails. Taking advantage of our SUV’s police cruiser heritage, I removed the keys but left the car idling. I walked the twelve steps to the preschool door, then looked helplessly up the school stairs.
It was only eight steps. Even so, I was reluctant to ascend them. I hadn’t yet climbed any stairs since giving birth, and I was disinclined to start now — especially since my presence in Bo’s classroom never actually hastened his departure.
I think it’s because we’d never established a rhythm; I’d only been inside the school a half-dozen times. For the vast majority of the year, my masked-up kiddo was shuttled into and out of preschool as though we were conducting a high-stakes hostage exchange. By the time the rules were changed, my due date was only weeks away.
Thus, on this Tuesday morning, I stood at the bottom of the stairs and piteously looked up toward his teacher at the top. “I haven’t been cleared for stairs yet,” I explained lamely — which was true. My midwife hadn’t officially given me the go-ahead — and never did. (To her credit, she trusts me to make my own stair-related decisions.)
Thankfully, Bo’s teacher accommodated my implicit request and got him ready for me — you know, just as she had for the previous eight months. She didn’t even question my excuse, so she probably assumed that Rhys’s birth had been quite traumatic. I let her assumption stand.
We slowly walked back to the car — specifically, to the trunk, which is now the way to Bo’s seat. I opened the lift gate, cringed against the deafening howls, and heaved my oldest into the trunk.
“Just think,” I panted. “Criminals used to sit back here, and now you do!”
My son gave me an odd look, then observed, “Aza and Ori are crying.”
“Yeah, they didn’t want to come get you,” I answered. “Sorry bud. Can you get in your seat for me?”
He nodded, then stepped onto the folded half of our newly-installed third row before clambering into his carseat.
I carefully closed the lift gate, then walked over to Rhys’s door. His weak newborn eyesight didn’t prevent him from crying louder at my arrival. And so, I worked quickly — reaching back into the third row to tighten Bo’s straps.
“It’s very loud,” he remarked.
“What are you tryna say?” I countered. Then, with a sigh, I added, “Please be patient. We’ll be home soon.”
And, thankfully, we were — although those few minutes were still nearly unbearable. Rhys had once again calmed, but Aza had not.
Oh, and Bo wasn’t a fan either.
But soon, we were home, and I could begin the minutes-long process of getting us all inside. First Bo, since he could walk and open doors; next Aza, sans-shoes and still screaming; finally Rhys, blessedly asleep.
I sent the older two to go potty and wash hands; meanwhile, I collapsed to the couch to cuddle my youngest. When Bo returned and asked to watch Larryboy and the Bad Apple, I relented with little protest.
I used that “free time” to send emails — and change Rhys’s diaper, and nurse him, and burp him, etc. Alas — VeggieTales ended far too soon, and I was suddenly back on the clock with all three kids.
Taylor’s meeting, to no one’s surprise, was going longer than initially planned, which left me to encourage “independent play”. To their credit, Bo and Aza were amenable to this idea — so long as “play” meant “dumping out every container of toys onto the living room floor”.
And so, I was stuck in a catch-22. Either I directly engaged with my kids and increased my postpartum bleeding, or I prioritized my healing and let chaos reign. I opted for a bit of both, liberally sprinkled with prayers for patience and strength.
Finally, Taylor texted that his meeting has ended, and he would be home soon. My relief was euphoric. I was now reclining on the couch in a belated attempt at mitigating the damage I had already done that day. (Better late than never, right?)
But, it wasn’t all bad. My eldest two played cooperatively, and Rhys snoozed beatifically on my chest. I closed my eyes and savored the rare moment of peace.
And then, the moment was over. Bo suddenly straightened up, dropped his toy, and sprinted to the bathroom. Moments later was the summons: “Please come wipe meeeeee!”
I opened my eyes and sighed heavily. It’s as though my kids’ bowel moments are intentionally timed for maximum inconvenience.
After a few seconds — and another summons — I recognized that I couldn’t will myself off the couch. Instead, I appealed, “Can’t you just wipe yourself!?”
“Uhhhh… ok,” was Bo’s reply — reluctant, but assenting.
I grinned wearily, then yelled a reminder. “Make sure to wash your hands!”
I continued to rest on the couch, carefully listening as events unfolded down the hall. I heard Aza join her brother in the bathroom, then the clatter of plastic hitting the floor. I imagined that Bo had knocked over the bathtub cup as he stepped down from the toilet, and this assumption was supported by the subsequent sound of the faucet turning on.
Good, I thought. Washing his hands already. I guess this was just a one-wiper.
I heard the water stream disturbed once, then twice — then three times, four times, five. With each repeated splashing sound, my suspicions grew.
Finally, I shouted, “What’s going on in there?”
Bo immediately called back, “Aza is pouring water all over the floor!”
Instantly, the sounds clicked into place. I rolled a still-sleeping Rhys onto the couch and swore as I jogged down the hall.
Sure enough, even the hardwood floor outside the bathroom was flooded. Aza looked up and giddily flung another cupful onto the tile before I could intervene.
Behind her, Bo still crouched in front of the potty, toilet paper shredded on the floor around him. He held a single square — the only whole one remaining from a now-empty roll.
“GET OUT!” I roared at my daughter.
She laughed again and left a thin trail of swampy footprints in her wake.
“And do not wake up your brother!” I added.
I turned back to my older son. “Uh — just, don’t touch anything.”
I retrieved a new roll of toilet paper and finished the incomplete wipe. As I helped Bo wash his hands, I asked, “Why didn’t you tell Aza to stop? Or tell me that she was making a mess?”
He giggled mischievously in reply, then left a second tiny swamp-monster trail with his departure.
I quickly grabbed a dog towel and mopped up the worst of the lake — especially the water on the hardwood floor, which is already damaged in that area. I left the towel in the bathroom, then returned to the living room to find Aza poking her sleeping brother in the ear with a spike.
Ok, so other people might call that spike something else, like “the blue insert to the Dr. Brown’s anti-colic bottle” — but that’s just a fancy term for “spike”.
“AUSTRALIS!” I bellowed. I ripped the spike out of her hand and tossed it into the kitchen sink. “Ok, that has to get donated.” I thought for a second, then added, “Once we find the rest of the parts for it.”
I scooped up Rhys — who, miraculously, was still sleeping — and held my daughter off with a palm to the forehead.
“I want to give Rhys-y Boy a kiss!” she whined.
I shook my head. “Not right now. He’s sleeping, and you keep trying to wake him up.”
Once again, Aza couldn’t counter my facts — and so, once again, she pivoted. “I want snuggles!”
Just then, the front door creaked open.
I turned to my husband with a smug smile and announced, “Don’t worry, Aza — I know someone who would love to snuggle you right now.”