A Fine Specimen

Most days, I manage to be both a mom and a doctor.  Which leads some people to think that I must have it more together than average, sort of an "I Don't Know How She Does It" phenomenon, except that I'm not as skinny or as perky as Sarah Jessica Parker.  Spoiler alert:  I am about to destroy this myth forever, by telling you a story about...urine specimen cups. 

I know certain things about myself.  One of them is that whatever I don't do the night before (pack lunch, add something to the briefcase) has a high likelihood of falling right out of my brain in the morning rush.  I know this, and yet I occasionally go off to bed muttering the deluded phrase, "I'll just grab it in the morning".  Yesterday I applied said delusion to my breast pump parts.  The pump itself lives under my desk at work, but all the little plastic gadgets have to come home and go through the sterilizing cycle, then come back to work the next day to keep the dairy running.  It is admittedly a little complicated.  On this particular morning I didn't realize my grave error until the moment I pulled into my parking space.

(Sidebar:  I call it "my" parking space because it is the same spot in the parking garage that I choose every single workday. My brain is so cluttered that I will otherwise forget where I parked and have to wander around a five-level parking deck looking for myself.  I don't think anyone else actually considers it "my" space, but thankfully no one else seems to want it.)

So there I was with a set of vigorously lactating breasts, an extra-long workday that involved three planned pumping sessions, and nothing with which to extract milk.  I contemplated various unappealing options including an hour-long round trip home during lunch, asking my already overloaded hubby to rescue me, or going upstairs to the NICU and begging for a "new mom" kit.  Which I most certainly don't qualify for, but they don't make an "old mom with breastfeeding brain" kit. 

Then it hit me.  Wasn't I missing a set of parts anyway?  And weren't they probably in the car somewhere?  A quick scramble in the floorboards, and I had a set of parts that could be washed and do for the day. But what was I going to put the milk IN?  You guessed it...this is where the cups come in. 

A quick trip into the clinic supply room and I had a handful of brand new urine specimen cups that sealed up Mommy Milk just as well as those fancy Medela suckers do.  Day salvaged, I went about my business. 

The only awkward part was last night, when I had to bring the hubby up to date on the slight change in the dairy supply chain.  "The stuff in the fridge in urine specimen cups is milk.  It's clean.  Don't ask."

Am I a Bedtime Tyrant?

OK, so bedtime at my house is a little regimented.  Make that a lot regimented.  As in, "the world may end if bathtime does not start by 6:30 so that PBS viewing can start at 7 so that reading aloud can start at 7:30" regimented.  I can predict with frightening accuracy the exact amount of time it will take to clean, brush and outfit for bed four children in sequential and various flavors of concurrent order, and I get a bit tied up in knots if I forsee that this is not unfolding in a timely fashion on a particular evening.  My husband, a delightfully laid-back non-watch-wearing sort of person, has some concern that this behavior is pathological. And occasionally, as I break into a sweat because we're running late to watch Curious George, I wonder if the man has a point.  Perhaps my kids will grow up to be tightly wound, anxious Type A people who freak out if the mailman is five minutes late.  Maybe they'll never learn to manage their own schedule, because it came pre-ordered from Mom the Bedtime Tyrant.  Maybe the condition will be come permanent, and no one in our household will EVER BE ABLE TO RELAX AGAIN.

But here's the thing.  Last night, all went well in the land of the Bedtime Tyrant.  We had our act together enough to chop and prep the night before, so dinner was actually on the table at six with minimal stress.  The kiddos actually ATE it.  #1 and #2 had plenty of time to get ready for bed in a leisurely fashion, while #3 and #4 got baths and emerged all cute and nice-smelling.  There was cuddle time for #4 til his appointed bedtime, rolling smoothly into read/snuggle time for #3 til HIS appointed bedtime, setting me up for read/snuggle time with #1 and #2 before THEIR appointed bedtime.  At 8:30, all in the upstairs zone was silent.  Whoo-hoo!  I felt like an elite athlete hitting a good split.  Round two, the downstairs zone, involving lunch packing, backpack-stocking, clothes-selecting, and cleaning up dinner, was all done before 10pm.  Lo and behold, hubby and I went to bed at OUR appointed bedtime.  And talked in complete sentences. And checked a couple of nagging to-dos off the list.  And actually enjoyed each others' company.  I felt great.  I felt stoked.  I felt...RELAXED. 

I admit, it is sort of a bummer that there's no room in my evening plans for long hot baths (although I do occasionally declare a Long Hot Bath Emergency and to heck with the dirty dishes), running out for a pedicure, or pretty much spontaneity on any level. And don't get me wrong, there are many evenings at our house when the dinner is not hot, nobody gets a bath, and chaos reigns.  But on the other hand, I do have these four pretty awesome kiddos.  And one unquestionably awesome husband.  And yesterday, I got to hug everybody and spend a little face time with them and let them know that they're worth my attention.  Which I guess is a decent trade-off for never getting to watch "The Bachelor".  And maybe even being known as the Bedtime Tyrant.