Crybaby

I wouldn’t consider myself overly sentimental. Sure, I kept the shirt I was wearing the night I met my husband, even though I outgrew it years ago. And of course, I packed away the blouse I wore to the hospital to have Ladybug, despite the fact the front is covered in mildew after I threw a wet towel on it and forgot about it for a week. But that doesn’t make me a sap.

Which is why I can’t figure out why I’m getting all choked up each time Ladybug pushes my hand away when I try to give her a bottle or feed her with a spoon. To my chagrin, she’d much rather do it herself. I try to remind myself that this is what mothering is all about – creating an independent, self-sufficient individual.

But it’s happening way too fast.

Maybe it’s because I’m home full-time now and I can see her daily developmental progress. When I was working, I always missed the milestones – and sometimes didn’t notice them for several days or weeks. Now I pick up on the slightest change in her habits and the newest sounds in her “vocabulary.”

I was thinking all of this as I was scrubbing the kitchen floor around her high chair for about the 10th time this week. Scraping up dried peas and scrambled egg is not exactly my idea of morning fun.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m not so sentimental about Ladybug’s self-feeding as I am fatigued by the post-eating cleaning ritual.

Yeah. That must be it.

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