4 Dec

There are times, like earlier this afternoon, when I feel like a babysitter. I walked into the house with the kids, all of us stomping and dusting the snow off ourselves. Babygirl’s cheeks and nose were bright red, and she had a huge smile on her face (she thinks it’s her first time being in the snow, but lo and behold, I have proof from LAST year that she was in it too. The beauty of being a toddler, you can experience your firsts over and over again). Toad was psyched to be home from school early and had gotten into an impromptu snow fight with his sister that did NOT end in crying or whining, but in laughter.

As we herded into the house and shucked our winter clothes off, it suddenly struck me that half of the time, when I’m enjoying myselves with the kids, I feel like I’m the babysitter waiting for their real parents to come home. I don’t feel like I’m their mother when I’ve got them wrestled onto the floor, gasping for breath as I tickle them. It’s when I’m yelling “get dressed”, or “Come on, babe, what’s taking you so long?!” or, (and this one is frequent) “YOU GUYS! CHILL OUT!”.

I wonder why this is? Am I normal? Is feeling this way normal? I feel off and wierd and not quite sure of myself. I was pondering this as I drove to the store yesterday to get the cake and other supplies.
Enter Babygirl, from her carseat in the van. “Mom.” she said.

“Yes, hon?”

“You’re my girl.”

I am, indeed.

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