Working Mom Stereotype Exhibit A

Four out of five days lately, I wear the same pair of black Anne Klein Sport ballet flats to work.

My jewelry selection is restricted to stud earrings. And my wedding ring.

This week, I walked out of the office for a rare coffee run to Schakolad on Central Ave. and realized I haven't been out to eat for dinner in, God, I don't even remember.

Three of my current top favorite work-appropriate outfits were purchased at Goodwill.

I am happy if I am able to squeeze in a shower and wash my hair in the morning before work. Bonus points if I completely blow dry said hair. More bonus points if I do so using the big, round brush.

My mind still feels like dull static. My ability to focus on tasks is severely strained. I've been trying to write a longer-term story for work and, truth be told, my biggest obstacle is my lack of mental acuity.

I feel like I'm becoming a stereotype, but that I really shouldn't publicly acknowledge that it's happening. Bad form. Professional poison. And, in the name of all competent women who work, heresy.

I drink coffee to help with the brain activity. Doing so interferes with the milk production. I drink more water to balance that out. Doing so forces me to take numerous bathroom breaks, thus breaking my already rickety concentration. I try to run down to the "Nursing Mother's Room" (as the sign outside the door proclaims it) more than once during my eight-hour work day. When I get there and close the door and set the pump up and pull my shirt down and press plastic against my chest, I stare down, tired, and despair over the slow trickle, the tiny splatter that is signaling a truth I didn't yet want to face: my months of keeping my daughter supplied with the healthiest of food is coming to an end.

Am I doing anything well?

Today, I dusted off the two framed photos of Aida that I brought to work with me when I returned to the office in March. In one, Aida stares straight at the camera from her spot cuddled against me in her Baby Bjorn carrier. Her blue eyes are bright under the purple brim of a woven cotton sunhat. Her little nose and toothless mouth like perfect buttons. In the other photo, she's propped up on the couch, reaching up toward me and smiling as I snap her picture on her three-month birthday.

My baby. The day I put those on my desk was a tough day. Tears. Bathroom runs. Broken sentences and sniffles.

How she's changed since then. Sitting. Biting. Crawling. Scaling furniture like baby spiderman. Repeating our words. "Up, down." "Dada." "Dis." "Maaah."

How she's changed. And, my God, how have I.

Home from work with a feverish Aida, Wed., Sept. 21, 2011.