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Every Thought That Goes Through a Working Mom's Brain on Her Commute

There's a woman who looks like a working mother -- she has a determined walk, but SEEMS a little lost. Don't we all. I wonder if she has the secret sauce to doing this every day, 'cause I sure as hell don't. I want to ask her how she does it.
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Caucasian woman standing near passing subway in train station
Caucasian woman standing near passing subway in train station

OK -- first step done: the apartment door is closed and I'm on one side and he's on the other. Bravo me. Oh sh*t, he's screaming for me. Elevator, please, please, please get here faster. Oh thank God.

Today was more painless than yesterday, I think. I should probably check my work email before I hop on the subway. My heart hurts. I wonder if he's stopped crying. OK, no new urgent email -- off I go. Did I remember to tell the sitter where the new diapers are? I should tell her that he's into pretzels not Goldfish lately. I hope it's not ridiculously hot outside; then I look like a sweaty mess by the time I get to the office. Let's queue up "Dark Horse," that'll make me feel like I can take on the day. You know it's bad for you when, as a 33-year-old, you have to listen to the hideously wonderful "Wrecking Ball" just so you don't cry on the train.

God I love New York magazine. This article is really interesting. What's it about again? Oh sh*t, right, I have that meeting at 10. I have to remember to have my second breakfast before then. Oh good, this station has WiFi, let me check my phone to see if the sitter has texted.

Ugh, we're stuck in the tunnel, of course.

This poor lady here, sitting next to that manspreader. My kid will never do that. It's so inconsiderate. He's going to be so well-mannered, so attentive to the world and people around him. He already is. I miss him. His sitter is so lucky to get to spend the day with him. Back to this article... I have to focus or I'll drive myself crazy. How many more hours until I can go home?

Here's my stop. Off to the next train. God, dude, don't push me up the stairs. Ugh, men. I have to remember to always teach my little boy to be respectful of others, 'cause this is bullsh*t. Oh, that tourist family is so cute in their total lost-ness. How lucky to be able to come to New York and actually enjoy it as a tourist.

There's a woman who looks like a working mother -- she has a determined walk, but SEEMS a little lost. Don't we all. I wonder if she has the secret sauce to doing this every day, 'cause I sure as hell don't. I want to ask her how she does it.

I wonder if all working moms feel this total sense of ambiguity. And sadness. Like we're missing limbs. Like we're lost without our children. I wonder if all working moms feel like I do this morning. I wonder if some moms carry flasks around. Maybe that's their secret: Be a bit buzzed all day and you won't realize what's happening around you. No, that's not practical. If I had alcohol in the middle of the day, I'd be asleep at my desk. But really. How DO we all do it? It's crystal clear that we can't have it all, so why am I even trying? Is it a lost cause?

Enough wallowing. I need some pick-me-up music. I'll never get through today if I don't start thinking about my eight hours away. Work is kind of like a vacation, after all. It's eight hours when I can be completely selfish. That is nice. I can check my email and chat with other adults at my leisure. I can go to meetings! (Never thought I'd be so excited to go to meetings with other adults!) I can read a book on my commute or play Solitaire or Tetris or just look out the window and engage with the world (world, yeah right, the dark tunnels) around me as a solo adult. I can go buy a new top at lunch if I really want to... speaking of which, today's Wednesday, it's Loft sale day. I have no idea how stay-at-home moms do it. I mean, really, that is hard. This is nothing. So I feel sad every. damn. day. So what? At least I can eat my lunch in peace... in more than three minutes flat and two big bites.

This seat is so comfy. Do I really have to get up? I love Sam Smith. I can't wait for my kid to be old enough for me to take him to a concert. I loved my first concert. How old was I, 6? A few more years to go.

I'm here. And so it begins...

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