i’m going to milk myself at my desk every day, and other lies we tell

I’ll get to the whole pumping at work debacle in just a minute, but first, can we talk about how we lie to ourselves–and each other–like all the time?

I’ll go first.

During my first week back to work, I must have faced the “How does it feel to be back?” question oh, about four hundred thousand times.

And of course, I had my perfectly-orchestrated, boilerplate answer all ready to go. Some BS version of, “It feels good to be back in a normal routine again.”

Come on.

Why do I say shit like this? Why can’t I be real for one tiny second in my lousy, pathetic, sleep-deprived, small little life?




See, I liked my maternity routine.

It was by far the most challenging year of my life, but for the first time ever, I felt like I was actually doing something meaningful.

For once, I wasn’t just a number–a cog in a machine. My ideas were valid, and my decisions were vital. I had a role, and it was important. I meant something to someone.

What I was doing mattered.

I mattered.

And you know what? I didn’t even mind being up at the crack of dawn most days. In fact, I kind of liked it.

cute baby boy

He’ll make you a believer in mornings, too.

I also liked the playdates, the yoga and swimming lessons. I liked the road trips, the long walks, the picnics in the park and the lazy afternoons in the sun. I liked being there for his first word, his first food, and when he sat up, stood up, and crawled for the first time.

And sure, some additional perks were the frequent naps, comfortable sweatpants and the freedom of going commando on the upper deck–but I earned those. Don’t you dare say I didn’t earn those.

I liked everything about my “abnormal” routine this past year, so screw you–no, screw me–for lying through my teeth like that.

Can I have a do-over?

You be my colleagues and I’ll be me.


Hey, don’t jerk me around, fella.

COLLEAGUES: How does it feel to be back, Becca?
ME: I’d rather be elbow deep in a smelly mountain of feces than spend another minute staring at this Excel spreadsheet.

Okay, moving on.

I’m grateful for the time I had. And I accept that I have to work.

I also accept that (for now) I’m not in any way, shape or form doing my dream job–which truthfully, makes returning to work even lousier than it already is. Life doesn’t care about your dream job, though, and diapers don’t grow on trees. Perhaps one day, I’ll stop being a cog and start being someone who matters–someone he can be proud of.

Just not today.

Now let’s talk about boobs.


I had it all planned out.

It’ll be fine, I lied to told myself. I’ll just pump at my desk twice a day, every day, et voilà! An endless supply of breast milk for daycare. He’s not quite a year old yet, so this way he won’t have to go on expensive soy formula or transition to dairy before his silly little GI tract can handle it.

Number of days I’ve been back to work: 7
Number of times I’ve pumped at my desk: 0

Stop trying to make pumping happen, Becca. It’s never going to happen.

And you know what? That’s okay. I mean, we’re all down here in the trenches, doing the best we can, basically just making shit up as we go anyway. So what if things don’t work out exactly according to plan?

That’s life, and life sucks sometimes. Maybe just be happy you’re here.

And doesn’t that single, ugly truth sound so much sweeter than a thousand of those beautiful lies?

the bitch is back (to work)

Hi, I’m Becca. You may remember me from such blog posts as, “I almost got gestational diabetes from a strict diet of sour patch kids” and “The Caesarian Section: 20 reasons why I feel like a complete failure of a woman”.

And if you don’t, that’s completely understandable.

I had to make a choice these past few months: neglect this blog, or neglect my cute little meat sack of a child. As you can imagine, the meat sack won by a landslide.

But fear not.

The bitch is back (to work, where I can blog on my downtime — don’t tell my boss).

I must have blinked or something, because apparently an entire year has passed and suddenly the meat sack (aka Liam) is 11 months old. What he lacks in teeth, he makes up for in drool — and is completely, utterly, the most majestic, hilarious thing that has ever emerged from my uterus.

cute baby boy

Liam can now crawl, pull himself up to stand, clap and wave on command, and has a diverse vocabulary consisting of mama, up, dada and a version of kitty that sounds a lot like spitting on the floor. He’s survived a terrifying hospital ordeal, a strict no-cheese diet and the east coast of Canada. It’s been a sleepless, jam-packed year, and I’m so grateful that I got to spend it with him.

This past week, my maternity leave ended and I officially rejoined the workforce. Just as I finally began to get used to zero adult interaction and completely giving up on my own personal hygiene, it was time to put on a bra, exchange my diaper bag for a snazzy H&M tote, and begrudgingly re-enter the realm of wage slavery.


Now I know you’re thinking, “But Becca, how do you manage to remain SO glamourous and put together in the wake of yet another complete shift in virtually every aspect of your existence?”

Stay tuned for the answer to this, a deluge of additional nonsense, and many more erroneous lines of questioning in the coming days.