Hello,

We haven’t actually met yet, but in just five days, you’ll assume responsibility for our precious 5 month old son, Elias.

I just spent a chunk of the morning filling out the numerous in-take forms your employer requires, answering dozens of questions about our sweet baby boy: What time does he wake? (Between 7:30-8AM.) Where does he prefer to nap? (In bed, next to me.) How do I show him affection? (Hugs, kisses, cuddles.) How would I prefer for you to show him affection? (Hugs, kisses cuddles.) How much does he eat? What makes him cry? What makes him feel comforted? The list goes on.

Still, despite the very thorough questionnaires, there’s so much I still want to tell you–so much I need for you to know.

I need you to know that this is our last baby–our last boy. I am in the final days of what might very likely be the last extended stretch of time that I ever have to be just a mom. Not an employee. Not a colleague. Not a team player. Not a committee member or an advisor or a coordinator. Just a momma. That thought guts me a bit. Okay, it guts me a whole heck of a lot.

You see, here’s the thing: I love my job. I love having a job. I love serving and contributing and thinking in ways that motherhood doesn’t allow. I know that I need my work–and that I am more than a momma. But on days like this, weeks like this–dare I say, years like this?–I wonder if I don’t need my boys more.

When I go back to work on Monday, my office will look exactly as it did when I left six months ago. My boys? They do not. They are different people entirely, and the rapid pace at which they are changing isn’t going to slow down anytime soon. Not for me. Not for my job.

I need you to know that, on many days, you’ll likely see me hurried and frazzled. I’ll be dragging a toddler in on one hand and lugging a car seat that I can barely lift with the other. I’ll have to change shoes and remove coats and remember bottles and blankets and loveys. I’ll probably be running late, as I almost always am now, and I’ll practically toss you our sweet baby boy from afar and rush out the door without so much as a goodbye.

You’ll think I was ready to hand him off. You’ll think I wanted an escape. (Some days, you’ll be right.) But mostly, especially in the beginning, I’ll be running to my car to cry.

I need you to know that, in the coming months, I will become better at math–something I haven’t had a knack for in the past. But I will spend an inordinate amount of time quantifying, crunching the numbers. I will calculate that you get to spend 8 hours a day with my son, and I only get 4. I will calculate that you get 5 days, and I get 2. I will figure out that we pay most of my paycheck and far more than our mortgage to have someone else take care of our children. I will total the time–years–lost, and I will know that I’ll never get that time back. I will try very hard not to be angry and resentful about this, but I’ll fail.

I’ll do a cost-benefit analysis constantly. I’ll never be able to figure out whether the cost is worth the benefit–or whether there’s any benefit at all.

Believe me when I say that I’m not complaining about how much you make. I want you to make more.

I am SO thankful.

What else can I do for you? Can I bake you cookies? Paint your nails? The work you are doing–the service you provide our family–is invaluable. You deserve every single cent–and likely much more.

So, when you hear me–and likely other parents, too–complain about the cost, please know that we don’t mean the cost of your exhausting, loving service. We are talking about a bigger cost, ultimately, and it’s one that is part of a system that isn’t really sustainable, I don’t think. We are probably all plotting our escape.

I need you to know, also, that I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you have to do this work. I’m sorry that you probably leave your kids so that you can watch mine. I’m sorry that you usually see me at my worst, and that the expectations are so high. I’m sorry that I’m not a more present employee–or that I don’t make more sacrifices for my job. I’m sorry that having a job often means I’m not a more present mother and that my boys don’t always see the best of me, either. I’ll think about how many BMs my baby has had while in very important meetings, and I’ll think about the very important meetings while I rock my baby to sleep.

I spend so much time being sorry and feeling guilty that there’s hardly time left for anything else. That’s a product of the system, also.

But there’s little things I want you to know, too. Like that Elias is most ticklish on his lower back, just under his ribs. And that he will stare you down if you don’t give him a taste of what you’re eating. He likes to sleep on his belly but eat on his back. His hands will always stink, but the back of his neck is delicious. He will break his neck to look at your phone screen (guilty for that, too), and he’s convinced he can talk. There are no diapers that will ever properly fit his chunky thighs, and that will lead to quite a few messes, I’m afraid. He practically never cries, but if he does, just find his brother. That’s his favorite person in the entire world.

As for me? My favorite people in the whole wide world are my sons. Each day, I have to leave them. But each evening, thanks to you, I come back to find them happy and full and rested and ALIVE.

I wish there was truly a way to have it all, but that kind of balance doesn’t exist. Maybe, one day, I’ll find it. In the meantime, we’re in this together, and I needed you to know how much that means.

Love, Elias’s Momma