Day 2

Day Two is way effing harder. Waking up is harder (reduced anxiety to motivate me out of sleep). Leaving the baby is harder (have you seen her sweet chubby cheeks?). And biking is harder (sore chode).

Sure work itself is mostly good - what's not to like about feeding pureed beef lasagna and palpating the sagging neck of a 75 year-old man who reeks of cigarettes, booze, and a pus-filled abscess? (okay, so maybe that's just me; but yeah, I really do like my job working with veterans, despite their pungent odors). On the other hand, it's hard to get my game-face back on, as in, "What's my job here again? How do I read the patient schedule? What's my password for charting? Who do I call to change a diet order? When am I supposed to be able to do x-ray swallow studies independently? Where do I find the protocols for the cognitive screening? Why am I asking this guy if he can point to the floor, the window, then the door?" I've been gone for several months so it's understandable to take a bit of time to get back up to speed. But I blame hormones. This "baby brain" business is no joke. It's as though I've lost my ability to multitask or learn new explicit information or even listen when someone is talking to me. And I'm not even sleep deprived.

If you consult Dr. Internet, "baby brain" brings up several links to BabyCenter.com write-ups, chat rooms, and some scientific reports. It appears that there are two camps - those who say the evidence supports the existence of "baby brain," that pregnant and post-partum women have a measurable difference in cognitive functioning; and those who say it's a bunch of bullshit, that studies show that the brains of women, regardless of uterus inhabitation, are essentially equal. My vote? For the pro-baby-brainers. I certainly don't feel as sharp as I once did. Rather dull, actually. Like an old No. 2 pencil. Or like watching paint dry. But at least tomorrow is a holiday. If I could have Wednesday off every week, this whole working-mama business might be a whole lot more tolerable.

And yes, I am typing away, hunt-and-peck-style on my iPhone, writing this blog post as I'm feeling sorry for myself. I'm locked in a windowless office with plastic machinery attached to my boobs, rather than at home on the comfy couch looking out the window with my adorable cherubic baby attached to my teet. Ole Bess at work. Woe is me. Insert sad face here.