My baby is 15.

Not Esai. Ant. My sweet, chubby cheeked 8-year-old boy is ... (gulp) .. 15 years old. He's a tall, lanky, confident, smart (though not as smart as he thinks he is) charming 15-year-old young man. How can that possibly be? I feel so cheated that I missed his first 8 years. And now ... it's 7 years later, and I feel so blessed to watch this transition into (almost) manhood.







And these were taken about 100 years ago ...

Cute now. Creepy when he's 15.

Yes. We have matching shirts. I couldn't help myself.

Missing my Bug

It's not easy being a working mama.

It’s not because I’m tired or feel over-worked. But dropping off my son each morning ... it breaks my heart into pieces.

The first day was the hardest, of course. I collapsed into sobs. Esai was fine. It’s easier now. But it’s not easy. It never will be.

It’ll never be easy to know that another woman is breathing in my son’s smiles, hugging him as he wakes up from his nap, even changing his diapers. And while my son’s daycare situation is wonderful and nurturing ... it’s still not easy.

Each day when the clock strikes 4 p.m., I jump in my car and drive like a speed demon to daycare ... 7 minutes on a good day, 10 if the asshole in front of me won’t get over (Can’t he see the urgency on my face?). And as the daycare lady opens the door, and I see my baby Bug ... and he sees me ... oh my ... it’s like my heart is resurrected. The hugs, the kisses, the sweet babbles (which I assume mean “I love you“) ... there’s no greater happiness. My heart runeth over.