This is one variation of my morning. I’m writing this as we speak. Breast pump is operating (“feed right, pump left” I repeat to myself as if I’m an offensive – defensive? – coordinator calling a play), coffee is here, so is water, hair is about to be dried and standard eyeliner applied. Husband soothing baby.
I’ve been awake since
4:30: Fed baby, changed her, spent 90 minutes playing (she decided it was as good a time as any to be fully functional), rocked her to sleep, started the coffee maker, walked the dogs half-a-mile before summoned back to the flat. She was awake again, possibly hungry?
Indeed.
6:30 now: Feed her, FaceTime with my mom. I tell her about the congratulatory form letter from the White House (Donald and Melania are proud of me), the Texas congressman who talked about me in a speech last weekend at new student convocation, the story pitches I’m working on. I read to Saira, make breakfast, eat breakfast, feed the dogs, playtime with Nanamma.
8:15: Change her, feed her, burp her to sleep. Lay her down. Turn on geyser for hot water.
8:45: Get ready for shower. Shower. Strategize for the day’s two solutions journalism workshops with 40 students. Make a mental list of the people to email for the story idea I’m cultivating. Consider when (if?) to host workshops in other cities.
8:55: She’s awake.
9:02: Blow drying hair. What driest part will look like I have my morning shit together? I’ll concentrate my efforts there.
Randomly thinking of Emily Ramshaw (by name). She has a toddler. She runs a most successful newsroom.
All the other working women whose footsteps I’m following come to mind. My sister. The prime minister of New Zealand. She a baby girl three weeks younger than Saira. She’s running a country. Her boyfriend stays home with the baby.
Simultaneously pumping. I need one more ounce to have enough for the two bottle feedings Murali will handle today. I’m loathe to dip into my stash in the freezer. Just give me 15 minutes. I’ll have this controversial resource extracted by then. Most days I feel like a full-blown dairy operation. I’m not mad about that.
Simultaneously restructuring my story pitch. Running through data in my head. Too much data blurring together. How do you know that you know that?
9:10: I decide the front part of my hair is dry enough to pass for “she cares a little”. Saira is crying. Maybe I can rock her to sleep once more before leaving at 9:25. I turn the breast pump off.
9:15: Laugh with husband who inadvertently stuck his finger in a dirty diaper. He changes her. Dresses her. I stuff almonds, raisins and bananas in my bag. Pour my pumped ounce to top her bottle off. Fill my water bottles. Kiss Murali goodbye. He’s stripping the bed. Washing sheets. Kiss Saira goodbye. She’s walking with Nanamma, hopefully to sleep soon. Goodbye, auntie. Goodbye, Tuck. Goodbye, Skye. I love you.
9:25: Out the door. Push elevator button. Why does it say that? Did I push the right button? Down. Yes, I was right. Here it comes. This is life. Questioning whether I pushed the right elevator button. There are only two options.
9:30: I’m at my desk. Deep breath. Small talk. Phone charging. Finishing this. Workshop in 40 minutes. Eat a snack.
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