My holiday winter babies have come and gone and there's a lull until families start contacting me for summer due dates. The lull sucks. It's "woe is me" and "I never want to be on call ever again" all rolled into one confused but adorable me.
It's the quitting season.
It's the point of the year where I mull over each e-mail I get and wonder if now is a good time to hang up the rebozo and live the carefree life of someone who isn't constantly stressed about childcare and if the Doula Wagon will self-combust on my way to the hospital. I daydream about last-minute vacations not sandwiched recklessly between births and on-call periods. I fantasize about not having to navigate dark inner-city parking lots and the twisty-turny catacombs from the after-hours Emergency Room entrance to Labor & Delivery. I smile at the idea of sleeping in my own bed all night instead of contorted into a Cirque du Soleil performer in a rickety vinyl chair for broken seconds of sleep before I'm needed again. I dream about knowing I'll likely never be put in a position where I'm so tired I want to puke and/or cry.
And then I sigh and press the "reply" button to set up that interview.
Deep down, I don't know how to quit this. Not entirely. Because when I walk into that coffee shop and sit across from a mother who is full to the brim of hopes and possibilities, I know this is such an amazing thing to be part of. It's insanely difficult, yes, but nothing short of miraculous. And then I'm pulled back in to repeat the cycle.
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