Sad Puppy

“I know what your blog should be today,” The hubby said this to me two days ago.

I turned from the door and gave him a confused look. “What do you mean?”

“Sad Puppy.”

I still was confused.

“Babe, that is the fifth time you’ve checked the door in a half an hour.”

I gave him a shamefaced smile. It was the truth.  I had been waiting for my mom to come so we could begin our road trip. Since about ten minutes after I got home from work, I had been ready to go. That was at twelve-fifteenish. She was supposed to be at our house at one. It was one-twenty-four.

Who’s the late one now Mommy? (just kidding.)

My eagerness is fueled by my need to be close to my son. I hadn’t seen him since Sunday before I went to work. Five days and one mental breakdown later, I was practically itching with withdrawal. As the hubby put it I was a “mental case.” In retrospect I was a walking mental case. Tears were always moments away, irritation level extremely high, and restlessness even higher. 

The fact that he called me a ‘sad puppy’ is a major understatement for what I had become.

So why did I put myself though sending Darren six hours away to spend time with the hubby’s family?

At first I wasn’t sure. But after fielding a half million ‘How will you do it?” questions from co-works, family and friends, and a million “I could never do it,” and one “Enjoy it while you can,” (Cindalicous) statements, I know why.

Growing up, I was never given the chance to really get to know my adopted father’s family. As a result, I barely know them and rarely see them. Now that Darren is back home with us and hearing how much fun he had with his cousins and aunts and uncles, it makes me regret not knowing them better.

When the topic of Darren going to visit for awhile (without mommy or daddy along) came up, I was completely against it. I actually did what I could to put it off for a while. It’s not that I didn’t want him to go see family, but I didn’t know how I would cope without my little man. The more the hubby talked to me about it, it became very evident that the visiting would happen. I agreed it should happen.

 That doesn’t mean I had to like it.

It means that family is a high priority for me. 

It has been, and always will be. 

It means that if I have to send my son six hours away for a week, it will happen. But be prepared for me to be a basket case. Actually, be prepared to deal with the emotional, hormonal, irrational lost woman in your presence. AKA: a mother. 

The Hubby felt the same lost feelings, but he was manlier about it.

“I miss my Lingle,” (His pet name for Darren, don’t ask). That’s all I heard from him, that and random bursts of laughter as he was reminded about some cute thing his little man would do.

But he made the same decision as me. 

It means family is a high priority for him.

It has been, and always will be.

“So how, often do you think you’d be able to let Darren go visit?” This comes from the hubby tonight.

“Babe, I just got him back, I am not even thinking about the next time he’s going.” 

He just laughs. I think he’s just relieved he doesn’t have to deal with me being a mental case anymore.

(Leave a comment and let me know what you would do in this situation. Thanks for reading!)

Skinny Girls Have Jiggly Too

Cindalicous calls it her persians (like the bakery treat). Black people know it as a booty-do. A lot of bloggy moms refer to it as their jiggly. Me I just know it as the extra padding. But I do have it.

My discovery of this jiggly started when my husband looked at me two weeks ago and said.

“Those jeans don’t fit like they use to.”

“Um, yeah. I did have a baby.”

I know he didn’t mean it a derogatory. Really, I think he is proud of it. Because he won’t have to explain to his family that his wife isn’t anorexic anymore; she is just really skinny. Pulse at the age of twenty-three I finally have hips and a budonka-donk. But it did make me start sneaking honest looks at my new form in the mirror.

What an unsettling experience. 

I will be honest; I thought I would get lucky and keep the same figure I entered my pregnancy with. Now, I have this pouch sitting on my front side. I should just name Darren Joey and tuck him back inside until he can walk.

Any change to a woman’s body regardless of her pervious weight, shape, etc. is life changing. And like most women I feel a huge urge to count carbs, diet excessively, and take inventory any and all pieces of food that past my lips and win my body back.

And like any sensible woman, I combine these extremes with going out to buy better fitting jeans.

I wiggle in to a part of Charlotte Russe Curvy Boot dark wash jeans and look in the mirror. The jiggly is making a definite concave, but my waist still has circulation. Then there is a knock on the fitting room door.

“Baby you in there?”

“Yeah,” I open the door to show him the wares. He looks them over. They get the butt-approval. I look doubtfully in the mirror and grab my jiggly.

He’s preening in the mirror.

“Babe, are you ok with my jiggly?”

Without looking at me he keeps smoothing his hair down. I block his view still clutching my pouch.

He looks me in the eye.

“Do you mind my jiggly?:

“No.”

“So I can’t really say anything can I? You look great.”

Have I mentioned I love this man?

Missing the Little Man

My son is gone. 

Ok, I know that is dramatic and only part of the truth, but I am in a dramatic type of mood. Darren is actually visiting his grandma in Milwaukee. 

So he isn’t gone, but temporarily absent. Either way I have to deal with being just a wife for three more days, and who wants to do that?

Me, and not me. When I left for work yesterday I was proud of myself. I was teary-eyed, but no tears were shed. I made it through work without crying or excessive calling or texting. I gave myself a big pat on the back.

The dread set in on the drive home; twenty-five minutes to contemplate how I was going to spend a night (and the next several nights) alone with the hubby? So I tried to keep positive. He’s not that bad of a fellow to hang out with. He has a sense of humor, he a good, if sometimes frustrating, conversationalist, and when we go to sleep he doesn’t snore too loudly. 

So under my anxiety and worry I am looking forward to spending quality time with him.

That’s doesn’t explain why when I arrived home I couldn’t sum up the energy to go inside.

The dread I had been feeling had transformed in to quiet panic. What was it going to feel like walking into a house without my baby boy?  Whatever that feeling was I did not want to feel it. Nope, I would just have to sit here until I had to go to work in the morning. 

Then I got a picture text. My baby boy had officially arrived and he was smiling framed by a heart of rose. My jealousy spiked. Two seconds later I was bawling.

And that is how the hubby found me ten minutes later. 

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m fine.” Sniff.

“If it’s that bad we can go pick him up tomorrow.”

“No, that’s not the point.” I wipe my face. It really isn’t the point at all. Honestly, I do want Darren to have bonding time with his fraternal family.  I just don’t want to be six hours away when he does it. 

“You’re not going to be depressed like this all week are you?” The things men say that don’t make situations better.

“No, I’m fine.” I just need time to adjust. Please.

A little over twenty-four hours later I am partially adjusted. Thanks to some retail therapy in the form of a gift card; provided by the hubby (thank you very much) last week in anticipation of a possible meltdown on my part. He knows how to take my mind off of things.

Two days and a dozen hours until I see my little man again.

I can do this.

This is the picture his Uncle Rodney took today of him.  I so miss that face!

Working Mommy Woes

It’s five-twenty in the morning. I am literally wiping sleep (in the form of eye boogers) from my eyes as I flick on my high beams to cut through the darkness of early morning. On four and a half hours of sleep I am more than reluctant to work an eight hour shift.

Is this really worth it? My son is five months and every morning at this same time I ask myself this question. Most days the answer is no.  But I am a working mommy.  If I had my choice I would be a work-from-home mommy; the term stay-at-home doesn’t fit me, I always have to be doing something.

Even so, the next eight hours seem like a mountain worth of time, especially, when my eight hours usually turns into ten hours or more.

It sucks. 

At the end of my shift I am always ready to go. I plot the minutes in my head and predict the exact time I’ll lay eyes on my little man. As I run the various errands I keep thinking of the last eight hours and what I missed. I feel guilty.

Finding Darren’s second ticklish spot.

Not being able to comfort him because he has a potential ear infection and is still getting over a weekend cold.

Is this really worth it?

It would be easier if I knew for sure that he misses me while I am not with him. Stupid right? He’s a baby all I should be worried about is that he is safe and happy. But I want him to miss me. I want him to be fussy, not because he his constipated, but because his is pinning for his mama.

But no, my son is the chillist of all chill babies. He’s eternally happy (if he’s not hungry or tired or sick), especially if all the little girls are there talking and playing with him. 

Until I walk (run) into daycare.

 

“Where’s my little man?”

He’s looking at me from his care giver’s arms

He starts frantically flapping his arms.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHAAAAAAA.” There’s a huge smile on his face. 

He leans out for me to hold him. Once he is in my arms he goes into cuddle mode. Snuggling in to my shoulder he immediately starts mouthing it.

“Ah Ah Ah Ah,” mouth wide he rubs back and forth, sits back and squeals, flaps, and cuddles some more.

My heart melts.

Is it worth it? At that one moment of my-mommy-is-here! reaction. 

Yeah, it’s definitely worth it.