My job is great. It’s a roller coaster to be sure, but it’s wonderful. I have the most exciting days sometimes. New discoveries, accepted papers, accolades from mentors. I feel challenged, in a totes good way. It’s an uplifting experience. Most of the time.
And then there are days like today. Weeks like this one. When I feel beaten down by the science. By my coworkers. When I wonder if I’ll be able to make it as an independent researcher. When I’m just tired, and can’t seem to find the energy to move forward. And then an email from Hubby:
Dinner tonight – grilled chicken with mango salsa and Spanish rice. Could you grab a decent 6-pack of beer and some wine on your way home?
Why, sure I can. I come home to a laughing baby boy who reaches out his arms for me as I walk through the door. We play with Monkey, get him ready for bed, read a book, say prayers (Thank you God for little Monkeys, for mommies and daddies, for those we love, and for those that love us back), and I nurse my little boy to sleep.
After I put Monkey to bed, he talks to himself for 10 minutes or so, his pitch and tone varying as he communicates with the animals in his mobile and adorning the walls of his nursery. Then everything goes quiet. Hubby’s cooking dinner while I have a glass of wine and blog. The smell of cilantro and roasted poblano peppers and red onion fills the air in our little condo, as Mumford and Sons plays on the radio. I try some of Hubby’s mango salsa – fucking fantastic.
I’ve got the coolest little boy in the world, and the best fucking husband that ever existed. Thank you, God, for my boys.