I find that this tends to happen to me whenever my son enters a new and difficult phase, leaving me in one of my “I just don’t want to be a mom right now” funks.
As a mother and teacher, I wonder what problems could be solved if we all looked around for the lonely, the forgotten, and the isolated and somehow said, “I see you.”
Life is crazy—a sort of controlled chaos as I try to figure out this thing called parenting.
As I began to rock my toddler to sleep, I couldn’t help but notice a significant change.
She has one treasured relic of babyhood, however, that both of us are having a difficult time parting with—Wobby.
I almost dread more the time they get left behind—just objects again, not alive like now. The time that inescapable, steady march towards adulthood consumes this bit of childhood’s magic
Contractions, colic, teething. The cycle continues. Beginnings are scary, but endings are scarier.
Even as I celebrate her growing up, I cannot ignore my desire to be near her, to hold onto her, to feel her on my lap.
“You read to me Mommy?” It isn’t really a question, but more of an emotional appeal.
My dad said I was just like Grandma, who always left out a crucial ingredient or two when sharing recipes long-ago committed to memory.