Home > grandmothers, motherhood > Eight years

Eight years

Did I mention that The Husband and I are going away this weekend. Without The Child?

It’s our eight-year wedding anniversary this weekend. The Child is now two and a half and we’re going away overnight. Not very far, mind you, nor for very long, but it will be 36 hours or so of just us. I’m not sure we know what to talk about any more, frankly.

Here’s the funny thing. I know I’m supposed to be all nerve wracked and stomach clenching about this. My sister in law made such an enormous fuss when we left The Child for the first time to go out and have lunch. “I know you’re feeling like you have to get back soon, I know it’s eating you up, like something’s desperately wrong, but it’s okay. Every mom feels that. Just enjoy your nice lunch.”

I was all… “Um, yeah, that’s how I feel.” Mostly, I was sort of numb and dazed — that was still during the awful first two months. I was a little nervous, but not this body-deep sensation she was talking about.

And yeah, I’m a little nervous about leaving her for the weekend. But that’s mostly because my Dad is kinda deaf and my Mom can sleep through anything so I worry that if she wakes up in the middle of the night — which she’s been doing again lately — that she’ll get so frustrated that she’ll climb out of her crib.

Oh yeah. Did I mention? She’s learned to climb out of her crib.

But mostly, she’s a sturdy little thing with a deep and abiding love for her grandparents and she’s pretty adaptable as long as her scheduled needs are met. My folks managed not to kill me when I was her age and, in theory, they know even more now. So mostly I’m not too worried. I feel like I should be — like I’m a bad mom for not being all nail biting about it. But right now, after six weeks of not enough sleep (allergies are awful this year), I can’t even muster enough guilt about not feeling guilt to really fash myself.

And the idea of sleeping in? Going to see the new Indiana Jones movie? Eating dinner without saying, “Wipe your mouth please,” or “Don’t put carrots in your shirt, please”? The idea of walking around town and holding hands with someone taller than me?


Categories: grandmothers, motherhood
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