grass is always greener

I spent the drive to work this morning with a lump in my throat. Britton was ornery this morning, not just pouting and whining about getting her diaper changed, but downright tearful crying. So not like her, but I chalked it up to Monday morning blahs. But I didn't get to stick around to make sure she was ok, didn't get to put her down for her nap early so she'd feel better - none of it. Because she goes to daycare, because I go to work.

And I figured out why it bothers me more now. It's because she's becoming a person, with likes and dislikes, preferences of activities, and a wide range of activities at that, who gets a kick out of the littlest thing and lets out a laugh that sets my laugh off too. She is easier to read, yet sometimes stubborn as a mule. When I left her in daycare as a baby, I missed what I got to do - hold her, feed her, snuggle her. On a daily basis, things stayed the same - she cried, laid on the floor, laid in the crib, napped four times a day, ate every two hours, and smiled when she had gas bubbles. But now, I feel like I am missing out on so much more because each day she changes. Her favorite toy could be any of them at any given time. She discovers things with abandon. Walking from her chair to me is so exciting for her, and of course she basks in the applause and cheers from all of us. When she's in a good mood she beams.

This evening when I got her home from daycare I set her on the floor and she lost it. Screaming, throwing herself backwards, tears streaming. And it went on and on for so long I knew something was wrong. I could not distract her enough, snuggle her enough, anything I tried was rejected. And when Grandma got home she agreed something had to be wrong to get such behavior from Britton. I took my poor girl, diaper only, to the urgent care down the street. Because a mom who doesn't work has time to find a pediatrician in a new town. A mom who doesn't work wouldn't have had to wait until 6:00 p.m. to take her daughter to the urgent care because she would have had an appointment, and known hours earlier something was wrong. But I have no choice but to believe my daycare workers who chirp every day, "She had a great day!" Because I don't know any different. After checking out Britton, the doctor asked me the last time Britton pooped. I didn't know. I didn't know if my own daughter had pooped that day because the daycare sheet was sitting on the kitchen counter.

Turns out it's most likely constipation - a combination of too much cheese and bananas, not enough water, and stress of the move and new routine.

I rocked her tonight, with her bottle, snuggling her fresh from the bath, hoping her constipation, or whatever was causing her pain, would go away. And she chewed on her Winnie, let out beautiful sighs, and let me smooth her hair from her face. She let me be mom.

And I miss that. Because I'm missing that.