Sugar and Spice

What a trying couple of weeks these last have been for our precious Pumpkin. Between the double ear infection, the three rounds of antibiotic shots, the packing up of her toys, and the new class, she’s been through the baby ringer. The first ¾ of that list we have nipped in the bud, but the new class has continued to be a struggle for both of us. On Monday I decided to stay and play a while, thinking maybe she’d warm up. The tears did not start immediately, so I thought I was on to something. Unfortunately, about fifteen minutes in to our play, Pumpkin got wind of what I was up to and laid her little head down in the crook of her arm on the table and wept (literally – wept). I ran out in a frenzy, watched her cry on and off all day on the webcam, and walked in to pick her up to be greeted by full-on hysterics. That’s the crying that really gets me – the pick-up crying. I can understand a few tears when mama drops you off, but when I’m there to get her? Really? Shouldn’t she

Sometimes being a working mom is the pits. I’m not talking about the early morning meetings on less than a few hours of sleep or the late night ones which prevent me from bedtime prayers and tucking in. I’m not talking about working with a baby on one hip and a phone on one shoulder, or with spit up on my documents or, better yet, my blouse. I’m not even talking about the pangs of guilt I feel every time she comes down with something “she caught at daycare.” It’s something much deeper than that. Something that I know I have to fight to overcome. It’s the overwhelming sadness of not being there to witness every discovery, kiss every boo-boo, and rock her every time the world is not perfect. It’s the feeling of having to say goodbye, even if just for a short time. I guess that feeling isn’t unique to working moms. I think it’s something every mom feels at one time or another. Working moms just get it earlier…and maybe more frequently. Even those moms who are home right now

As all of you are probably well aware, I do not like change. Now, I know most people don’t necessarily like change, but I REALLY don’t like change. You can ask Hubby, I get frenetic when things don’t go as I had planned. When my best laid plans go astray (as we all know they do), I go right with them. Of course, all of my resistance to change has, itself, changed since Pumpkin was born, but I digress. The real point I want to make is that just like her mama (or, baba, if you will), Pumpkin hates change. And, as you have probably guessed, this wouldn’t be much of a blog if her little world wasn’t changing in some major (and highly resisted) ways this week. The biggest change this week was her promotion to the toddler class. My resistance to the change started last week when I got the “promotion” letter. I welled up with tears and could hardly tear myself away from her baby class on Friday when I picked her up for the last time. Hubby is already highly concerned for how I

Our little Pumpkin is growing up so fast. I feel like every day I look over at her and she is doing or saying something absolutely, incredibly “grown up.” Take, for instance, the photo of her chowing down on a ham and cheese sandwich in a booster chair (not a high chair) at a restaurant. Sooooo grown up. All these realizations, however, caused me to get a little ahead of myself this weekend with a brilliant idea I’ll call “Project Project” (and, which, at the end of this blog you will see was really Project Fail). It all started with our little darling being eaten half-alive by mosquitoes (reference prior post about car filling with mosquitoes, etc.). Seriously, her little arms and legs look like an urgent connect-the-dots game-gone-wrong. I try to keep her slathered in alternating all natural (read: ineffective) bug repellent, and then Benadryl spray and calamine lotion but I just cannot seem to stop them from flocking to her and, in turn, her from scratching. Now I’ll

First of all, not to mislead you, but the title of this entry is not intended to imply that its contents will be gushy. And, no – Pumpkin isn’t counting yet either. It’s actually me that’s been Rainman-ing around with a blur of numbers running through my head since she’s been born. It started out with 6 pounds and some ounces and inches, then we added, and added, and added to that. In addition to those ounces, were the carefully monitored and measured ounces and scoops of her bottles, followed by the calories of food and, again, ounces of milk. Counting all the while. And everything isn’t just weights and measures – there are also the age numbers – first, the days (1 day old, 4 days old) that turn into weeks (4 weeks old, 6 weeks old) that eventually turn into months (I admit, I currently have no clue how many “weeks” old Pumpkin is) and I hope and pray that one day those months turn into years (if I one day have to explain to someone that I am buying a car for my 192 month old I m