A Piece of Work

Well, the time has come; both sanity and funds have run low and I'm heading back to the work force.  I have enjoyed the good fortune of an extended maternity leave, due in part to a lull in business at my place of employment (thank you, federal government for your timely mishandling of our fragile economy!), partially due to Izzy's initial prematurity, and mostly due to my just wanting to cling to 12 pounds of beloved offspring for dear life! 

I am terrified of walking out of the front door for 8 hours while someone less adept at deciphering Izzy's nuances takes over the helm.  I am almost equally concerned that Melanie won't come out of her coma and that Sammi will never find out that E.J. has kidnapped her baby.  That's right - I've become addicted to daytime tv during my stint as a stay-at-home mom.  Gone is the gal who hustled to work whistling 9 to 5 under her breath donning a pressed pair of scrubs and ready to take on the veterinary world at large.  Now it's pajamas until noon, a splattering of spit-up on my shoulder, and intoning with zombie-like fervor, "Like sands through the hourglass, so are the Days of our Lives..."

But all good things must come to an end.  And there are furry critters out there who need me, right?  Instead of creeping into Izzy's baby-powder-scented sleep space in an attempt to cut her miniscule (but deceptively sharp) fingernails, I will return to wrestling bent-on-destruction rottweilers for an action-packed mani/pedi. And Pampers, who needs them?  I'll spend my days with latexed fingers probing the north end of many a south-bound animal to retrieve lost items, take samples, empty glands, and just really tick off a variety of pampered pets. 

There are many more similarities between infant care and veterinary work than might be evident to the casual observer.  Prior to motherhood, I stared in disbelief when a client would march in toting their balding, farty, toothless poodle, plant a lipsticked kiss on their wart-infested skin (smelling faintly of old lady perfume) and claim to love this creature more than life itself.  But now I think I can relate; after all, my mostly bald, frequently farting and still toothless Izzy tugs on my heartstrings in ways I never imagined possible.  And I will admit to a previously low tolerance threshold for the jewel-encrusted dog carrier which typically housed a  ferocious chihuahua dressed in a pink boa accenting a sequined hoodie.  But I can no longer throw stones as I obsessively match pink bows and ruffles from head to toe on poor, hapless Izzy. 

I really do think that the baby experience will make me a kinder, more empathetic veterinarian (although my frequent calls home might make me a less-than-desirable employee).   I am going to strive for balance between these two job descriptions.  I have pledged to myself that I will not fret about Izzy while listening to a client describe, in agonizing detail, the shape and color of her cat's hairballs.  Conversely, I will attempt not to worry about the outcome of the tennis ball swallowed by an intellectually-challenged Golden Retriever while Isabel is urgently and persistently telling me something that sounds like, "Aflac, gurgle gurgle, Oh boy" (her favorite phrase to date). 

It is an impossible and age-old dilemma:  we fickle humans always want to be where we aren't.  And I know that there will be times while I am cuddling Izzy that I will be thinking about squeezing a kitty tumor or dissecting a ruptured spleen.  It's human nature - or maybe I'm a genuine freak show.  Either way, I will charge ahead ready to continue my work life as if nothing has changed when, in reality, everything has.