2005.06.14 - promises, promises -
I promised this time it would be different, that I wouldn't work such a crazy schedule, that I'd blog all the time, that I'd protect the sanctity of your babyhood. But I can't help it (and it's not just because I need a roof over all our heads, and plenty of organic farmer's market goodies in our bellies). I'm just a working mama.
In no time I've gone from (see, I had to delete "carefree," that was never true) she-who-won't-be-scheduled, the mama with her playdate calendar booked solid, to a mom who stays up until all hours of the night drafting client contracts.
And leaves you alone with daddy so she can interview a potential employee, enjoying that stolen 15 minutes of picking someone's brain when she should be cuddling with you in your "fussy" time.
But it will be different, it is different. When I work late into the night that means I can feed you all day, that when you cry I can come running and pick you up and give you kisses. Even though your brother watched TV half the day, he also made cookies with me between phone calls to real estate brokers, and used 1/2 cup of flour rolling out 1/4 cup of dough over, and over, and over again.
And you cuddled so quietly in the sling, flour sprinkled through your fine, soft hair, and were happy in your baby way. And while I listened to my marketing seminar you pushed off my legs with your legs, you can hold your weight up just like your brother could at his age. And when I record my voice to test some software, I can hear your chirping breastfeeding noises in the background, and I want to, but don't, cry a little at your sweetness.
