My mornings have gotten a whole lot harder lately.
My boys love me. A lot. It's wonderful. They shout 'Mama mama mama' when they see me. Several times each day, they will stare at the door and plaintively cry 'mama? mama? mama?' (at least according to the nanny.) They kiss my picture. And when they fall down - as they do, oh, 27 times a day and lately from frighteningly high distances - I'm the one they reach for.
It's gratifying. Immensely. After all, who scoffs at unconditional love?
But then there's the flip side: How do I leave the apartment in the morning without feeling like I'm ripping out their hearts and stomping all over them in my ridiculously high heels?
I admit it: sometimes I sneak. They'll be in their room with the nanny, and I tip toe out without saying goodbye. Because when I do go in for that goodbye, love-you, mommy-has-to-go-to-work-kiss, there are screams. A lot of screams.
In fact, the screaming starts when they see me in 'work clothes' (needless to say 'weekend mommy' wears a whole lot more denim).
I know. It's just a phase. And I don't, honestly, feel too horrifically guilty about leaving them during the day. They have a wonderful, stimulating daily life and they are surrounded by people that love them. I make their breakfast and tuck them in at night - which averages out to more than 3 hours a day. (not that I count or anything. That would be neurotic. Actually, a spreadsheet would be truly neurotic. But I don't have one. I swear.)
No matter how logical and rational and reasonable I am, it's hard to deliberately turn the spigot on those crocodile tears.
I know its just a phase. I know in too short a time I'll be nostalgic for the moments they actually *wanted* me around. And I know it will never, ever be easy. But for now, at least every once in a while, I might sneak out the front door in my stockinged feet.