A Day In the Life Of: Brigid, a Working Mama of One

Two soft-boiled eggs and black tea with honey. Side note: Benicio thinks this mug is hilarious, so now it always makes me think of his giggle. I also feed the rabbit. She is Poppy, a 7ish-year-old mini lop (we think) that we adopted almost two years ago. She is cantankerous but cute, so she lives.


My son dropped his very adorable and almost brand new toothbrush in the toilet the night before, so I attempt to sanitize it by boiling it. It was a wise decision that went really well for us, as you can see:


I finish getting ready, kiss my boys goodbye (who tend to wake up just as I leave the house), and head to work. It’s LA’s version of fall/winter, so I wear a sweater dress, my favorite boots ever, and a scarf. And by winter I mean like 70 degrees, but whatever.


I arrive at 8:30ish. That means 8:45. I work in a secure building with its own police force (not joking), so I have to pass through the metal detectors and such and do not try to take a photo. Then I arrive to my very tidy office.


Or not. You can’t tell that it’s also dark because I have been suffering from chronic migraines my entire life, so I cannot handle fluorescent lights. I get teased and frankly do not care. My desk is especially messy right now because it is the last day to finish work on a massive federal grant application. I am the fundraiser for my organization, so that fun is all mine to enjoy. I have not cleaned my office in weeks. An even scarier sight is my Outlook inbox, but I will spare you the horror show.

Next up I unleash my inner snob and make coffee in my French press rather than the office-provided Keurig. I hate the taste of the coffee from those little pods, and if I am going to get cancer from anything, it will not be the BPA in the K-cups. I drink it black and hot from the mug I painted with my husband on a silly six-monthiversary date:


Then I work. Work work work. This day, that mainly means checking and rechecking the eleventy billion forms required for this grant for completeness and errors. It also means harassing coworkers for the data I need. Everyone loves/hates the grant person. At 11:00 a.m., I pump. All the offices have a large window that faces into the cubicle area, so I am the only person with a very stylish curtain for privacy.


While I pump, I eat a Reese’s peanut butter cup or three, and I work some more doing more of the same. I will spare you the details. Eventually I reheat my lunch.


Black bean-poblano-sweet potato soup in the world’s largest mug. I eat it with a flimsy plastic spoon because someone keeps stealing my ultra-expensive IKEA silverware from the office kitchen. More working while I eat. I’m tired. I’m ready to go home. I take this racy selfie:


I pump again around 3:30. My husband and I text throughout the day, and he sends me baby pictures and videos. I miss my son terribly, even though I’ve been back at work since he was 12 weeks old. At 5:00 p.m. on the dot, I fly out the door. It’s already fairly dark in LA at quittin’ time.


I get home about 5:40. I put the milk in the fridge and then grab my son for kisses and hugs.


He helps me open a package from my mom (baby clothes in 18-month sizes – he is growing so fast!).


Baby boy usually goes to sleep between 6:30 and 7:00, but he’s extra tired tonight, so I nurse him down around 6:00. I then quickly reheat some leftover beef stew:


And then I’m back out the door. On Tuesday nights, I have Junior League meetings. I am the assistant to our president, and I am responsible for taking minutes at every other Board meeting. Luckily we meet less than half a mile from my apartment, so I make it on time. Our meeting goes a little long, and after I do my assistant duties (i.e. taking out the trash), I head back home. I walk in the door at 9:30. Husband and I spend a little time together before I head to bed around 10:30 so I can do it all again.