Yesterday I got off to a great start for a Monday. We were out the door and had grabbed Starbucks for breakfast before my 9:30am Stroller Strides class. No groceries. It was the ‘Bucks or starve. That aside, we were doing alright with just one threenager tantrum and only a little pee through the baby’s diaper on his pajamas. I even pumped milk before we left so I didn’t have to do it while driving when pervy truckers can peer into my SUV. I had all my clothes on behind the wheel. Win!

I told the instructor we had to cut out of class a little early to get Charlotte to gymnastics class. We were making good time and I got half a workout in. I’ll take it. I downed water on the way to gymnastics. Water is my thing now. So. Much. Water. Now that I have time to exercise in my new #SAHM life, I’m gonna take advantage of it. I’m embarrassed to tell you how long it had been since I did actual exercise before leaving my full time job. We’ll just go with “more than a year.”

The water has a downside, no doubt. I wear my baby in the carrier when I have to pee. I wake up in the night when I’m not breastfeeding to pee. I hate even having to say “pee.” It’s so crass. Sorry, but bodily fluids are my life, ya’ll.

Our relatively blissful morning was cut short when after gymnastics I made the risky move to take my brood to Carter’s to round out their spring wardrobes. It was before lunch. We were prime for meltdowns. After my successful hunt for size 3T capri leggings, we headed home. Charlotte started losing it while we were still in the store. We had a bit of a “come to Jesus” discussion between racks of 30% off cargo shorts.

No worries. We got back in the car to head home. We were still hanging in there for a Monday. That is until my bladder was overwhelmed by my excessive hydration. I had to go. Bad.

That’s when they started up, both of them. Henry, the world’s happiest baby, turned on me in my time of discomfort. He wailed and screamed. No bottle that I awkwardly poked in his face by reaching in the back seat would soothe him. That’s when Charlotte decided this was too much for her. She whined and wailed. More bodily fluids. This time tears.

She hollered, “This is ruining my whole day!”

Really?! You ruined my junk for the better part of six weeks when I pushed you out and you want to tell me how this car ride is ruining your day?!

The more I pleaded with my children to calm down, the louder they screamed. We hit every red light. I was sure people in other cars could hear the wails of my discontented babes. I panicked and looked for somewhere to pull off the road, anywhere. Why did I drink so much damn water!? Why didn’t I do kegel exercises to strengthen my pelvic floor like my OB/GYN told me too?! Where is a bathroom!?

I pulled off the only place I could, a small, quiet side road. I threw on the hazards and jumped out of the car. I took Henry out of his seat to try to find out what on earth was wrong with him. I continued to do kegels so I wouldn’t wet my pants. He stopped when I rocked him a bit. I looked around. I couldn’t take it anymore. My sniffling 3-year-old stared at me with teary eyes. I looked around.

I was gonna do it, ya’ll. I was gonna do it. I was going to hold my baby, drop trow and pee on the side of this road because I couldn’t take it anymore. Just then a truck carrying a crew of construction workers came around the curve of my quiet side street. Thank God I still had my pants up.

I put Henry back in his car seat and thought about what I was about to do. I stood with the car door open and laughed until it hurt. My children looked at me like I was insane. Maybe I am. I’m a kegeling, milk pumping, full-bladdered mess who almost flashed a construction crew who could very well know the truck driver who may or may not have seen me pumping milk on another day.

I see my husband’s intensity and mischievousness in my daughter. He is part of her. She is becoming her own person, no doubt. But, I see someone else more often.

During the Winter Olympics he asked her if she wanted to watch hockey, skiing or some other sport. “No, I want to watch figure skating, Daddy.”

Yeah, because that other stuff sucks compared to figure skating. I get it.

The other day I asked if she wanted to go to the toy store before we left the shopping center. “No, I want to go to the store with the dresses. ”

Atta girl.

My parents tell similar accounts of me as a 3-year-old. I make myself sound shallow with the girly-girl tales. It’s more than that. She is so much more. 

Yes, she dons her princess dresses with flair and twirls as all little girls do, but she is playing out a full-fledged saga in her mind. Her tales of heroes, villains and adventures have a beginning, middle and end. She feels the range of emotions of the characters that are real to her.

So like me.

My daughter chatters and chatters, telling us the tales of her imaginary friends who act out scenarios to make sense of her world. She immerses herself in books. She creates a heirarchy among her baby dolls. She seamlessly blends toys into the same make-believe family that never would have existed to others. She gives unique names to every toy.

I did the same.

She delights in being the oldest and the first, a little too much. She can be a bit entitled, but is wracked with guilt when it’s brought to her attention. The agony of disappointing her parents interrupts her need to push her boundaries.

I know the feeling.

She looks the part of a pretty, preppy girl, but occasionally feels the need to show on the outside that she is more on the inside. She has to show the quirk that makes her so unique.

I understand.

It is an equally funny and frightening thing to see your child have so many of your own traits. I watch her grow with hopes that she’ll take my strengths. I only hope that I can guide her through the weaknesses I know all too well.

Many weekends of the last several months we have attended third birthday parties. We help our daughter keep up with the active social life of her 3-year-old peers. At each of these parties, parents have similar conversations that usually include a phrase like, “I don’t know what is wrong with Junior, lately! He/she has been awful! I thought the ‘Terrible Two’s’ were over!”

Oh, they ARE over. In my experience, the tantrums of the Terrible Two’s have nothing on the meltdowns of “Threenagers.”

My mom has always said of my sister and me that ages 3 and 15 were the worst. I remember the hormonal ups and downs and adolescent insecurity that led to all the dumb shit I did as a 15-year-old, but age 3? Yikes. I have very little recollection.

To my mother’s delight, my daughter’s behavior has brought back memories of my reign as a threenaged tyrant. Here’s evidence of a few of Charlotte’s latest mood swings:

She said to me the other day, “You’re ruining my life!” I had a friend tell me her 3-year-old son recently shouted, “You don’t understand me!”

Threenagers. ::sigh::

Don’t get me wrong. She’s not a bad kid. Actually, she can be incredibly delightful. In fact, she only has two moods since she turned three, wonderful or awful. There is no in-between. When she is happy, she bubbles over with infectious, sweet energy. As a 3-year-old she is able to express her happiness and gratitude better than when she was younger. But, the flip side of that?! Well, see the above photos. She pushes her limits and tests her independence. Sometimes she just melts down and can’t get it together.

Hmm. I guess that’s not unlike when I went off with my friend and got my cartilage pierced at the mall without telling my mom. But, I was named to the National Honor Society the same year. There was no in-between wonderful and awful at age 15. My parents managed my teenage awful with “grounding” or some other suitable punishment. We’re handling our threenager with time-out or taking away toys. It works okay, but sometimes I think teenagers and threenagers need an ass-whooping.

Disclaimer: I don’t really spank my kid. Calm down, haters. 

They say your children teach you more than you teach them. I’m starting to believe that.

Recently my daughter was belting out the “Alphabet Song,” which she charmingly calls “ABCDEFG.” She barely took a breath before starting “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” I think she learned a Russian or Slovak version as she says “Tvinkle, Tvinkle.” So worldly.

My husband pauses. With realization dawning on his face he says, “Whoa! Do ‘ABC’s’ and ‘Twinkle, Twinkle’ have the same melody?!” I looked at him funny and replied, “Um, yeah, you didn’t know that?”

I’m no composer, but I have two ears.

Last week I was changing the baby’s diaper. He’s finally getting over a nasty cough. I was making the switch from dirty diaper to clean when he coughed.

Ya’ll. They moved.

I gasped and nearly jumped back from the changing table. Realization dawned on me. I said to my husband, “Oh, my God! That’s why they have  you guys turn your head and cough!” He looked at me funny and said, “Um, yeah, you didn’t know that?”

He’s no urologist, but he has two balls.

When I went back to work after Charlotte was born it was at 2:00am. I dragged myself out of bed and away from my baby to report the news. That was January, 2011. For another year I left my infant each day to go to work. It was hard, but she had great care at a great school. I changed careers a year later in February, 2012 and started at a PR agency. It was a good move for me. I love my coworkers. I love working with clients. I like having my weekends off and not being a slave to the news cycle. Life at a PR agency can be hectic, but rewarding.

For three years I prided myself on being a do-it-all working mother. I was proud of how much my daughter was learning at her school. That made the steep monthly payments more justifiable. I went to all the class events I could. My house was often messy. We could only have playdates on the weekends. I used the hashtag #workingmother. Most of all, we were an insanely busy family, but life was good.

This month I went back to work when Henry was 9 weeks old. We found a great sitter for him with a better price than Charlotte’s daycare. She is a wonderful teacher and caretaker for my baby. She helped soothe the harsh wound of leaving him.

But, this time going back to work was different. Yes, I felt the same stress of having two working parents trying to get a baby out the door and I longed for my children, but it was worse. I was missing it. Missing everything. The first time I went back it was always with the thought in the back of my mind, “Well, I could always stay at home with the next one.” Plus, most of my salary goes to childcare.

I never pictured myself as a stay-at-home mom. Don’t get me wrong, they are fascinating! I would be in my suit on my lunch break and see them in line at Panera or Chipotle. They would be in yoga pants and have their tots in jogging strollers. I would push aside the pacifiers in my purse to get to my wallet. I would see them with their babies and my heart ached for my own. That’s when I would do a quick countdown to the number of hours left in my work day. Except, I knew that likely wouldn’t be the end as I would surely be on the laptop answering emails after bedtime. I would look at these women and wonder, “What do they DO all day?” as my phone buzzed in my pocket with backed up emails.

Well, I’m about to find out what they do all day.

After coming back it hit me like a ton of bricks. I stared at the computer in my office and I knew it wasn’t right. My shoulders were tense and there was a weight on my chest. It was just all wrong. I think I had to go back to work after maternity leave to know that my heart was calling me home.

But, what about my resume? What about the 8 years of my life I poured into a career in TV news, dragging myself into work at all hours of the night and day to keep pushing to be promoted?  What about my 2 years at a PR agency, learning so much about the different industries of our clients and offering my news expertise? Would it all be for nothing? I worked hard and I’m proud of what I accomplished.

A fellow working mom said it best, “What’s a year gap in your resume? You wouldn’t be the first mother to do that.” True. I told Greyson, “If I don’t do it now, when would I? When they’re older and don’t want to hang out with their mom?” No, it’s now or never.

So, a week-and-a-half after maternity leave I told them I was leaving. Get this. I swear it’s a freakin’ dream come true, ya’ll. They want me to still work in a freelance/consultant capacity. I’m still an employee. My first gig is in March. Seriously? Is this real life? How awesome is that?! I’m feeling so, so blessed.

We are sad we’ll have to take Charlotte out of her daycare. She has been with those kids since she was 3 months old. Her teachers are wonderful. But, blessings continue as I found a part-time preschool that can take her in March after she finishes her last month at her current daycare in February.

Sometimes everything comes together and all things point to a certain decision. Yeah, it’s still a risk. What if it’s not what I think it will be? How long will I do this? Do I have to use the hashtag #SAHM?

Friday is my last day. Here goes nothing…or something.