Dear Longlegs and Sweetpea,

Oh, my sweet angel loves. Another weekend is upon me and you are gone. Day in, day out: it’s just the three of us. You keep me going when I don’t want to go. Sometimes between breakfast, play, cleanup, potty breaks, accidents, wet pants, more play, lunch, poops, puddles on the floor, fights, whining, crying, more wet pants, hugging, naps, snacks, more play, bathtime, bedtime, bedtime stalls…. There’s barely any room for me in there!

I have been told that with children… you just hold on and survive for the first five years. I have also been told that having a two year old in the house is like having a walking blender without a lid on. (Looks like I have two blenders running around.) I have also been told that having birthed children is like having your heart ripped out of your chest and watching it walk around. All are true.

You exhaust me. I regret to say that in the arsenic hour that is sixty minutes prior to bedtime, your poor mother is counting down the minutes… looking forward to flopping down in the chair and breathing in and out… slowly. And somehow I’m supposed to turn these precious few evening hours into personal productivity or cleanup from the day’s events… when all I want to do is nap.

But Saturday is upon us – and you are gone for your weekend visit. Suddenly the house is colder… quieter… lonelier. You’ve plugged up my heart and in your collective absence I feel the hole again. The emotions don’t run out water from a bursting dam anymore… but there is a slow drip of pain… always, when you’re not here to cork me up. Distract me. Love me.

Damn this bond that ties mother to her offspring. This sacred bond. I am missing you so. I am told to treasure this time to myself and in truth I do – for I have always treasured my alone time… but soon I will busy myself figuring out what I’m going to make you for your first meal back, putting away all your toys on the shelf, picking up the oatmeal muffin crumbs you left all over the floor when you typhooned all over the house this morning. I can’t wait until you are back home, when I can wipe the poop from your bums, clean your dirty noses, wipe your tears and all other motherly tasks that I undertake with a glad and grateful heart. For you are the best job I’ve ever had. I am your most willing and humble slave. I am an eager worker forced into temporary retirement when all want is my purpose back again.

I will spend a few moments weeping. Then I will commense with the distraction, the grocery shopping… the drawing. I will do my best to make you proud and use this time wisely until I’m counting down the minutes when you’re home and rubbing your snot into my shoulder again.

Love always,
Mommy.

Epilogue: Worry not. Melancholy may be a frequent friend but it is not bosom companion. A hot bath and some Gameboy is great therapy.