friday morning mouse

We have a mouse problem.

It made for a very exciting morning on Friday before school, with all three children tickled silly by the sight of the tiniest fury creature trapped beneath a narrow spouted bowl normally used for the wet ingredients, and Mike and I - for the first time ever - deciding depriving them of a pet is probably criminal and we should get a dog.

...But not now! Later. (Talking about a dog happens to be more fun than addressing the mouse problem).

This week was my first back at work after winter break. The first day, when I dropped Beatrice off at her sitter Danielle's house, it was almost as hard to leave as when I first started back in August. After three weeks together, my tolerance for separation was nil. When I rushed to pick up the baby in the late afternoon, feeling quite proud of myself - of us! - for keeping it together that day, she seemed distressed, rather than relaxed and happy in the glow of our reunion as she used to. I picked her up and she reached unmistakably for Danielle. I passed her back to Danielle and the baby smiled at me in gratitude, then grabbed at my necklace without looking at me, absorbed in pursuit of its glimmer - like she normally does with everyone else while I hold her. At one point she even turned away and nuzzled her face, shy, into Danielle's shoulder.

I found myself nervously chatting about how surprising and strange it was to see Beatrice acting with Danielle the way she normally acts with me around friends. And gee, wasn't it nice that Bea had such a strong attachment to Danielle, and was so comfortable and happy at her house?

I hope it doesn't make you sad, said wise Danielle.

Oh, no no, maybe like ... 5% sad, I said, smiling. 10% max. It's just a little bit, mixed in with being glad this is working so well.

But then the rest of the day I felt ill. And the next morning when Beatrice woke early and I brought her into bed to nurse - as is our wont - I snuggled her close and covered her in excessive kisses with a desperation that a baby can surely detect and might be inclined to pull away from in disgust (though she didn't, bless her darling heart).

The rest of the week wasn't quite as painful at pick up, but Beatrice continued to have a hard time transitioning. We usually sit at the kitchen table and talk a little in the afternoons, as Gabriel and Danielle's kids play and snack and Beatrice nurses. This used to be comfortable for her, but now the presence of two caregivers lingering seems to put her on edge. She looks to Danielle, shouts a bit, looks back at me. Maybe now that she's older she doesn't know who she will be with, or when we'll finally leave, and it's unnerving.

Or maybe she just loves Danielle better. (Not really. Right? Ha ha ha?)

I need a heart lobotomy. I need a surgeon to take a scalpel to the site of my deepest feelings and do something, turn down the volume, excise the part that makes love so excruciating. 10% sad?? How cavalier! How silly, how optimistic. I was 99% sad within minutes, and now, after a week, maybe I'm at 72%. Not only am I sad, my confidence is shaken. I'm questioning the way I let the baby wander about and pull the scrap paper out of the shelf, the way I hoist her around the kitchen and talk to the big kids, the way I put her to bed at night. The way - let's just be out with it - I leave her with another mother who stays home and crafts and cooks the way I once did while I go to work four days a week.

Lest you worry, I do know the baby is very attached to her own mother, adores her papa and her siblings, and seems undeniably happy in the bosom of her family. She is growing and becoming herself beautifully. My job is a satisfying, meaningful, challenging privilege that I feel very lucky to have.

But. This pulled-in-two-directions mothering stuff can be so hard.

(I won't even get into the challenges of mouse poop under the oven.)