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No matter where you work, some days are just hell on earth.

One such day plagued me when an inconsiderate source collided with uber-tight deadlines and last-minute decision making. My own stress level did nothing to calm the situation.

Coincidentally, I also was working on a radio spot that included a pre-recorded version of my 19-month-old son’s laugh. The morning’s mayhem was basically solved by the time I began the voice-over, but my nerves were still bouncing.

All of the sudden, Brody’s sweet giggle projected through the studio speakers, and my aggravated attitude dissolved. My shoulders settled down a notch, and a smile crept back onto my face.

Some of the day’s problems still needed a solution, but suddenly their importance waned. That 1-second laugh clarified my priorities and cleared the angry fog in my head.

I’ve heard about this type of experience before, but like most motherhood cliches, I shrugged it off as a dramatization. My toddler — smart, beautiful and healthy as he is — is also poopy, drooly, whiny and goopy.

Even still, his feisty spunk is my pride, and I’m always looking for cute baby contests to enter. But it surprised and thrilled me that hearing his laugh for just a fraction of a second completely reversed my state of mind.

I rushed home from work that evening, excited to set housework and cooking aside so that I could get down on the floor to play blocks with my son.

We giggled and we chased each other and we played hide and seek. By bedtime, I was relaxed and lighthearted.

As we settled down into our nightly routine, I rocked Brody in the dark and tried not to let the tears fall from my eyes. Yes, my baby boy cried for the first six months of his life. Yes, my baby boy can be defiant. Yes, my baby boy has a temper.

And, yes, my baby boy is — just as the cliche says — the love of my life.

When I was younger, I saw myself as a woman in a suit, stomping on the toes of anyone who got in my way. Thankfully, I’ve turned out to be someone vastly different from that imaginary Nicole.

But there’s a part of me that pushes that version of myself to work harder and faster than anyone else.

And a son doesn’t fit into that vision too neatly.

So the two sides of Nicole — Mommy Nicole and Workaholic Nicole — are constantly quarreling. It doesn’t help when Rachael Ray (and other such mommy-focused personalities) applauds women who need makeovers because they haven’t taken a day off in more than a decade.

In the past two years I’ve taken at least a day a month for myself. In fact, I’m planning to use my gift certificate for a massage this week.

But as I start to see a little person developing beneath the baby babble and waddling run, I fear that I’ll miss the majority of that treasured time when your child actually wants to be around you.

And on those hellish work days when nothing seems to go according to plan, I toy with the idea of downsizing to a one income lifestyle.

So I try to work from home as much as possible, and I make sure I’m home for dinner and bedtime every night. I count the hours that I get to spend with Brody every day, and I schedule special family outings on the weekends.

Then again, sometimes work obligations save me from a bigger mess. Just last week, I dodged one of the more disgusting messes in Brody’s short history.

“Get me a bag,” Duane called to me as I scurried downstairs to find my shoes. “Brody threw a handful of tampons in the toilet.” “Sorry!” I called over my shoulder after handing him a plastic bag. “I’m running late! Good luck with that.”

-- Nicole Paitsel Daily Press (Newport News, Va.)

——— Paitsel can be reached at 247-4737 or npaitsel@dailypress.com.