This year, autumn arrived like a good friend. Gently, methodically, the jewel tones and amulets of fall usurped the hazy hues and trinkets of summer; where there were watermelons, hydrangeas and coconut iced coffees there are now apples, hardy mums and gingerbread lattes. We've had a stretch of such exquisite weather—chilly mornings, sunny afternoons, crisp evenings—that the days have melted into one another. I've been spending time with my mom, my sister, and my daughter, running leisurely errands, relaxing at home, digging out my sweaters, pushing the stroller through the park.
But I've also, in small increments, like perusing herringbone trousers and suede heels or contemplating which photos to display on my desk, been preparing for my return to work. When Olivia was first born, twelve weeks felt light years away. Now it's next week. I'm sad that our freewheeling days together are nearly over, but September feels like back-to-school time no matter how old you are, so I'm resigned to accepting what must be done. A part of me is even looking forward to it. A very small part. Some of me thinks I would enjoy being a full-time mom. Most of me knows that is not possible and probably also not true, and is steeled for the transition.
But I've also, in small increments, like perusing herringbone trousers and suede heels or contemplating which photos to display on my desk, been preparing for my return to work. When Olivia was first born, twelve weeks felt light years away. Now it's next week. I'm sad that our freewheeling days together are nearly over, but September feels like back-to-school time no matter how old you are, so I'm resigned to accepting what must be done. A part of me is even looking forward to it. A very small part. Some of me thinks I would enjoy being a full-time mom. Most of me knows that is not possible and probably also not true, and is steeled for the transition.
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