I am a young(ish). working professional. mom. This blog is all about that. And cupcakes.
When I’m feeling bad or insecure about my techniques, I google the aliment to see what the Internet says. (Does my toddler watch too much TV? Why isn’t my toddler eating? What does a spider bite on a toddler look like?) I’m lucky that the Internet will eventually say what I want it to say.
And I do have enough scars to feel like I’m earning my stripes. That I can look at a mother with a 15 month old on a five hour flight and think, don’t worry lady, I’ve got your back. I sing songs. I do faces. That binkie on the ground? I’ll get it for you and turn away so you can pop it back into kiddo’s mouth.
“So, you took some time off this year.”
I guess my maternity leave could be viewed that way. My story was more along the lines of how I busted my arse to get back to work – figuring out daycare, having the hubby step up for paternity leave, and tackling, head on, the work/family blend.
A 103 degree fever this week had me removing my daughter’s fancy, modern sleep sack in favor of a lighter blanket.
As I rubbed her back, I found myself studying the blanket I’d chosen. An afghan crocheted by my grandma.
Growing up, we had afghans everywhere in the house. We, in Illinois, would pick out yarn, ship it to North Carolina and at the next birthday or holiday, another afghan would appear.
My personality leads me to being a person that dives in to a project, gets lost in it, tunes everything out, then reemerges either feeling done, accomplished or bored with the project…and I begin something else.
When my daughter was born, life became about 15 minute increments. What could I do, complete, achieve in that time frame.
I started with household cleaning. Tidying, laundering, etc. The stuff got done, but it didn’t feel very meaningful.
A old friend from high school passed away last month. We had reconnected last year after S was born. The first time in seventeen years.
It feels astounding to write that.
When he passed, I was flooded with images and feelings of high school. I wandered down the road of nostalgia. I felt old. This is the age that these things happen. His passing affected me deeply. While time had passed, connection had not.