I look at her sometimes and it’s hard to remember what it was like to carry her inside of me. What it was like to be the only one to know this awesome secret I would soon unleash on the world.
And sometimes I wonder what she will be like as an adult. Will she be tall? Still have dark hair? Will she still have that big silly smile and say certain words with a Jersey accent?
Will she still be my baby?
I miss the days when she was wee and didn’t talk much. When she would look at me with those big dark liquid eyes with those long spiky dark lashes and smile so big, her eyes would disappear.
She didn’t move much for a while there and was a late walker, and that was awesome.
Now, unless she is asleep, she is moving all of the time. Singing silly songs to her cereal in the morning. Dressing herself. Having her own (very loud) opinion.
I will miss this. I have to go back to work very soon, due to one very large debt that must get paid off so we can move out of Chef’s parents house.
I spent a good hour yesterday crying so hard I threw up, thinking about how much of this I will miss, working for someone else.
I have not worked since Chuck was born. I enjoyed being a stay at home mom and I enjoyed watching both of my babies grow uninterrupted.
Now, I worry about both of them and what a transition like this will do. I worry about what it will do to me.
I have to postpone my plans and my dreams to pay off a large debt that I should never have had to incur in the first place, and I am angry. I am tired. I am frustrated. And I have applied for job after job after job and I hear nothing back.
I wonder if my emails even make it past the spam filters.
So for now, I will enjoy my crazy children and my waning days as a stay at home mom and I will be thankful for the time I got to spend with them, and will look forward to other things in our lives instead of dwelling on what shouldn’t have to be.
Ps: I have had a lot of people ask me why I blog so much about Chuck and hardly ever about Boy Wonder. He is 12 now, and I subscribe to the theory that at that age, he gets to tell his own story. It is no longer my story to tell unless I ask permission….and these days, he rarely grants it
I would blog about him all the time if he’d let me.