o'motherin

This was taken on St. Patrick's Day, and it belongs right here on my blog:

I had one of those mornings today where I hated that I decided to go back to work.  I had to wake George up for daycare, early - too early for him.  He was sound asleep.  No matter my cooing and baby rubs on his tummy, he stretched and rolled about to get more comfy.  He was, as we say often at our house, "out."  I finally pulled him up and into my arms.  He was disoriented and still so sleepy, one cheek bright red where it snuggled into the bedding.  I thought - jeez - not only am I plucking you out of your sweet dreams, but here - let me throw on some lights and freeze you out when I change your diaper as fast as I can.  I told him I was the worst.  Then we dashed out of the house together into a very windy, very dark morning.  At this point, he was awake and judging by appearances, happy.

As you can see -- George loves daycare, which I call "school" to make myself feel like he's at the Yale Preparatory for Infants with Working Moms.  He is fabulously happy there, however.  And he takes wondrous naps so the early mornings always have a silver lining.  

But still.  My Working Mom brain is a series of cotton balls strung into a loose wad and thus, my day at work felt as though it held no purpose.  I do important things there, sure.  Though all I could think about today was how George stretched into a small prayer of getting a second helping of sleep.  And then I snatched it away.

Torture.