cindy sherman, working girl
Back to work with baby. A room full of babies, and my baby. My arms full of babies, and my baby. My breasts full of milk for my baby. All day telling myself you are so lucky you are so lucky you are so lucky I am not leaving my baby with someone else, to hold her , swaddle her, rock to her, show her the small awakenings of Spring. I am there. I count the differences like ominous pox marks: I cannot hold her all day, I cannot sling her, I cannot nurse her on demand, I cannot respond to her every movement and noise as though we are one being; these things are how I know to be a mother, but now I am a working girl. At work I am watched. When I leave they sidle in and ask: How is it going? Meaning: Is she still doing her job? I know I am because of the hard pit in my stomach all day, because when I look at Ever she is often not one foot away from my face with her sweet breath in my nose, but lying on the floor/rocking in swing/bouncing in the seat. I juggle her needs the same as I juggle the other baby needs in the infant room. Same/Same. Mr. Curry comforts me and holds me when I cry that it's all so different and he told me She's getting the best of you and God, I hope that's true.