I just found a tiny piece of broken glass in my bed. Please don’t ask me how it got there, because I have no idea. I’m less concerned about the glass itself and more by the fact that I am barely fazed by finding something that could potentially draw blood in my bed. I suppose it’s part and parcel of having a toddler around; you find all sorts of interesting things in the most unexpected places, and while there is probably a great story behind why it got there, you just don’t know what it is.

My house is the perfect example of this. Glass aside, I have recently found an empty Cheerio box, mangled to a pathetic hexagon-type shape, on the floor of the living room. I have also discovered Yonah’s toothbrush next to the door to our patio, a soccer ball in the bathtub and, my personal favorite, a toy car in my underwear drawer.

Yes, Yonah is a busy bee. This afternoon we went for his two-year checkup, which he most definitely did NOT enjoy. He’s a big boy now, 30 pounds even, and talking up a storm. What struck me most, however, was when I asked the doctor when we should come for his next checkup and told me I didn’t need to come back until Yonah turns 3. I felt like, in that moment, Yonah officially became a big kid. I suppose I should have gotten the hint when he headed off to school with his backpack and packed lunch, but in my head I still thought of him as a baby. So, while he is still just 2, I finally realized today that Yonah’s babyhood is officially over. I had a sad pang in my heart for that sweet baby, and had about 2 seconds to miss him before Yonah crawled into my arms and said, “Ready to go?”.

Thank G-d I have Kivi around for my baby fix. I watched Shuie playing with Kivi on the bed tonight and listened to his angelic little laugh and felt a surge of that yummy baby love that is as potent as crack. Suddenly, I got the urge to have another baby (It’s the addict in me, I guess; something feels good and I want more). Just as suddenly, I gave myself a good mental shake. I can barely keep it together now between the job and the house and the kids and, once in a while, exchanging pleasantries with my husband. It’s so easy to forget the sleepless nights and hormonal roller coasters when they’re so cute and fat and sweet and smile at you like you’re the most perfect person they know. It’s not that I don’t want more children, but right this second, it’s probably not the best idea. I’ll just have to console myself by burying my nose in the rolls of chub on Kivi’s thighs.

If I may, I’d like to say something completely non-revelatory and grotesquely obvious, but needs to be said: Being a working Mom is really, really hard. The majority of the Moms in my community work, many full-time, and since this is a big medical community quite a number of them have insane schedules that keep them away from their kids for very long hours. I am one of the spoiled ones who only works three days a week in the same building as one of my children and around the block from the other. Still, I constantly feel like I’m playing catch-up and that there’s barely a moment to breathe. If I’m not working, I’m running errands or cooking or making phone calls or attempting to pick up after my children, who live by the motto, “Drop it like it’s hot in the middle of the dining room”. My apartment is a monolithic mess that I have to steal time in order to clean — I can finally be grateful that I don’t have a house; chances are, if I did, it would be condemned.

Thankfully, however, I’m not the only one who feels this way. The other day I was having a conversation with a friend of mine, a fabulous mom of three who also happens to work full-time. I asked her how she does it and she said she basically gave up her social life, outside interests and most of her free time. She’s constantly frazzled, trying to beat the clock, and has given up on a decent night’s sleep. Another mom I know had her daughter and went back to her residency after only 4 weeks. She said between the long hours on call and being up with the baby, she was a zombie for months.

Until now, I never understood what it meant to really juggle. Working moms always have many balls in the air at once and have to wear many different hats in one day (sometimes more than one at the same time). It’s like a constant whack-a-mole; after one challenge gets tackled, another one pops up. It’s almost impossible to keep up. As much as I would like to be a “SuperMom”, I can tell you that after just 3 months, I don’t see a cape and tights in my future. I will be the first to admit that I can’t do it all, and that it’s simply impossible without help. As I told Shuie: “I don’t need flowers or jewelry. I don’t want couture or fancy gadgets. What I really need is a wife”.