|"Guess how many people I spit up on today!"|
But yesterday, I pulled up my big girl non-maternity (!) jeans, put a bow in Gracie's hair, and I did it. I walked back to my old desk to find that all my things had been cleared off and someone else was sitting there. THE UTTER BETRAYAL. We parted ways mere weeks ago, and yet my swivel chair had already claimed someone else's hips to torture. My friend handed me a folder of my things, including but not limited to: pictures of my cat, a fake autographed picture of Benedict Cumberbatch, and a poem I wrote about goats.
As you can see, I was a very hard-working, dedicated employee, and they are very sad to see me go.
A small crowd started to form once people caught sight of The Hair, and I held Gracie up above the maze of cubes, Simba on Pride Rock style, and introduced her to everyone as the reason I cried and threw up for nine months. Right on cue, Gracie spewed like Old Faithful. She covered herself and my arms in spit up to an audience of 20. She kept the pattern up and only spit up whenever I introduced her to someone, saving the best job for my boss. I took her to James' office last week, and she did the exact same thing. We walked out of both offices reeking of nervous sweat and sour milk.
I walked around the whole building, one arm full of baby and the other full of burp rags and chatted up all my old friends. I fended off several questions of "when do you think you'll have your next baby?" with a swift GET THEE BEHIND ME, SATAN. I attempted to delicately balance commiserating with other moms on the horrors of birth and recovery while also trying to downplay the dramatics to my very pregnant friends who were hanging on every word. I said a heartfelt goodbye to the floor underneath my desk where I took more than one nausea-induced siesta. I thought about showing Gracie the stall in the bathroom where she forced me to spend many a work day, but I stopped myself. I handed my badge and parking permit to the girl from HR while Gracie did one more puke job on my friend, and then we walked out the doors I hadn't been through since I was 9 months pregnant.
And then I came home, put on my pajamas, ate some cookies, and called it my retirement party.