guilt

For the most part, I have very little guilt about being a working mom with my husband at home with our child. From the get-go with our relationship, Kevin and I knew that I would never be a stay at home mom. And that was always totally fine with me.

In college and for the first several years of our marriage, I didn't think I wanted to have children. (Insert your gasp here.) Actually, I was pretty sure I didn't. Now that's not something you planned on reading here, did you? I wasn't keen on the idea the idea of having children until Kevin and I had a dog together. That most likely sounds crazy to most people, especially those of you who are cat people and not dog people. Whatever. That's how it happened. Insert Sedona the babydog into our lives, and I got it.

Anyway, back to the guilt thing. This did me in today. Open front door. Feet are in major pain today after standing 10 hours straight and all I want to do is sit down. She sees me. She squeals with delight. Here she comes. Step. Step. Step step step step step step step step as she picks up speed and attempts to run to me with her hands stretched up wide. I pick her up. She pats my chest and exclaims, "Mama!"

I'm so tired. She wants to play but I need to have late dinner and sit down. We have dinner. I try to read "A Mother for Choco" to her but she's rubbing her eyes. Time for bed. I change her diaper, make a night time bottle, jammie her up, attempt brushing Hannah's seven teeth through her tightly clamped lips, and put away some of her laundry while she settles down for the night.

I wish I had more time with you today, sweetheart. We'll have tomorrow together.