The moment my husband left for work, I miss his warmth.
The moment I left my babies at home for work, I miss their baby
scent and innocent eyes.
The moment I dropped my girl at playschool, I miss her
cheeky smile, her energy and bubbliness.
Then I arrived at work, went through my to-do list, and get
on with it. Sometimes without realizing that time has passed, the break times
that I need to keep tabs on. It’s time to pump breastmilk, time for lunch,
prayers and pumping again. I can’t miss the pumping time for my babies. Then
5pm will approach but I still have lots to do, each day I have to prioritize
which can wait and which couldn’t.
Sometimes my little girl had to wait a little longer, but
not too long I hope. Sometimes I get to fetch her on time. And we’ll go home to
my babies, all cleaned and dressed in PJs. I’d start asking questions to their
nanny as usual, how were they? Did they poop? Did they sleep well? How much did
they drink today? Sigh. I see them only in their PJs on weekdays.
My husband will come home and we’ll have dinner. Sometimes a
quiet one and sometimes not. It’s unpredictable with a 2-year-old toddler
around, who still gets jealous of her baby sisters, who has a lot of energy
bundled up in her, who misses her parents dearly after a whole day at school,
who craves attention, who has so much to explore and express in her gibberish
language.
Some nights my husband will leave for work – again. Those are
difficult nights for me, to put all children to bed when I can barely stay
awake myself. Some nights, I let him be, some nights I’d reason for him not to
leave, to wait till tomorrow, but I know he has a lot on his plate. Some nights
he would give in, some he wouldn’t. Some nights we would end up arguing, but I
would always found myself wrapped in his arms, protecting me from my own fears,
draining my worries with his snores.
And when morning comes, the cycle continues.
My parents would visit every now and then. Or we would visit
them. They still kiss me before we depart. I miss the familiarity of my
childhood home, of home cooked meals by my mum, of my dad sharing his
experiences, of my siblings being annoyed by each other.
I have a lot to be thankful for, but for the most part is
for my perfectly imperfect family.
