The weekend was tough. Scary tough. No, seriously. My boys were a whining, screaming, teething, separation-anxiety-ing handful yesterday. I’m not exaggerating when I say I was scared.

A lot of things scare me about this transition: Forgetting how to wear heels, have an adult conversation, or brush my hair.  Not having a 401k or people to er, delegate to. And I’m actually a little scared one day I’ll stick the fork a bit too far into the disposal trying to jam the broccoli stalks down and lose an eye, and that my life might just turn into one big Kathy cartoon or Someecard. But mostly, I’m afraid I’ll be awful at this.  That I’ll burn dinner every other night, bore my children to death, and even end up regretting my decision to leave work.  Mostly I’m scared of days like yesterday. 

Yesterday was a test. That’s the healthy way to look at it. Mid-tantrum [theirs, not mine] it felt more like a sign, a warning. Yesterday a 2 hour round-trip commute, coffee dregs at 3pm, and badly-run conference calls were looking glamorous.  The reality is that I’m going to have days like that.  And once I’ve made the leap, there’s no turning back. I have to stop second-guessing myself, put on my big-girl panties, and get on with it. I can do this, and regardless, I’m going to do this.

5 weeks from today, I make it official.


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