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 be running to me with open arms and a big smile and not crumbling into absolute hysteria?
Each day the teachers assured me her mornings were okay, and that it was only after the first of her class mates got picked up by their mama that the crying game was on.
So, I’ve spent the last almost two weeks psychoanalyzing, introspecting, and, of course, googling. I was a mama on a mission – determined to get to the bottom of what was making our usually joyful Pumpkin so darn sad. I read up on separation anxiety, toddler insecurities, transitioning, emotional attachment and reflection, and all sorts of other psychobabble. I convinced myself of all sorts of grand emotional traumas that my child was going through. I contemplated becoming a stay-at-home. I was certain that long-term damage was being inflicted on her tiny psyche. I even called the principal to discuss all of these concerns.
Then, Wednesday afternoon, I realized what an over-analyzing idiot I can be.
It started like any other Wednesday afternoon. I walked into Nursery 4, Pumpkin broke down into panic-mode when I walked in, we scurried to the car, she had a few moments of perforated post-sob breathing and was basically fine by the time we got home. As we walked up to the front door, I told her (as I do every day) that “dada” was inside. She started to whisper to herself, mulling that thought over, “dada, dada” (as she does every day). I opened the door and plopped her down on her own two feet and Hubby met her in the kitchen, down at her eye-level with arms open (as he does every day). She picked up speed, tripping over her feet, and made a bee-line for him (as she does every day) but then…then she got to the refrigerator and made a hard right, yanking on the door and reaching up for the milk and then, despite her dada’s dejected expression, turned and reached for the Cheerios.
She was starving.
Fast forward a few hours and time to watch an episode of Mickey Mouse in mama and daddy’s bed before hitting the crib hay. I toss her on the bed and before I can even find the remote, she is snuggled onto my pillow giving it a “good pillow” pat-pat and closing her eyes.
She was exhausted.
Then it hit me. She has gone from a class where she got two long naps a day (the last one ending just an hour before I picked her up) to one where she gets one nap, mid-day, and one snack right after.
She was starving.
And exhausted.
She wasn’t having symptoms of toddler dysthymia or social anxiety. She wasn’t unnaturally attached to her mother or unusually afraid of strangers. She wasn’t being beaten or abused.
She was starving and exhausted.
Basic human needs.
Not even just human.
Basic animal needs.
Mama forgot about those.
So yesterday I picked her up with a snack and we got ready for bed a little early.
This morning she didn’t cry when I dropped her off. Instead, she walked slowly but surely over to Miss Lana, who greeted her with a big “Praise the Lord!” I actually got to work with a smile on my face and have only checked the webcam once.
Praise the Lord, indeed.
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