I'm going back to work tomorrow. I've had eleven months off: a roller coaster of love, misery, panic, and all the things that come out of various bits of babies.
I never questioned the wisdom of going back to work before. After L I had thirteen months off, went back without looking back and loved it. Of course I was only there for seven months which may have helped, but still. This time round I'm having second thoughts. Or third. Or fifty-seventh.
If I were my grandmother, I wouldn't be having this debate with myself (not to mention anyone else who'll stay still long enough to listen). I wouldn't have had a choice; I'd have got married, and if I'd had a job I'd have given it up then and there. If I were really unusual, I'd have hung on with my job until I got pregnant, but then that would be it. Full-time motherhood the only option. Instead, and courtesy of the women who flung themselves under horses, tied themselves to lamp-posts and burned their bras, I'm boring even myself with the endless question of what is right: for the girls, for me, for us as a family, for rabbit's friends and relations...
Sometimes I wonder if choice is all it's cracked up to be.
So here I am, going back to work. Because I have a job, and it's a good one. A Proper Job, with an office and a secretary and everything. I even have to wear a suit. I have a degree too, and somewhere in there the remnants and remininscences of a brain. So clearly my only option is to use them.
And I'm going to. Roll on tomorrow.
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