Let me first go on the record by saying that my love for my child grows in breadth and depth with each passing day. That kiddo is my whole world and there’s really little else that matters with the same veracity or passion. I love him and I love being his Mimi.
And …
*Gulp*
… I was so ready for the long holiday break to end. I was so ready to get back to our normal routines. I was so ready to go to work and to share his zest for life with his daycare providers.
There, I said it.
Yes, seeing the lights of the Hanukkah candles and Christmas tree (what? I’m complex) glistening in his awed blue eyes was magical. Watching his rapidly growing toddler brain connect the idea of colorful boxes with new toys was a dazzling neurological event to witness. PRESENTS! (And I bet the clarity and distinction between all presents and his presents will come by next year, for sure. …)
We played with Uncle Brady. We played in the snow. We visited cousins and friends. We explored Discovery Gateway. We baked cookies and pies. We painted. We got sick, had movie marathons, wore matching cat onesie jammies, built and destroyed a thousand block towers and train tracks.
And we still had a week to go.
So, we built forts, and played in his old cradle, and jumped on the couch, and did floor puzzles, and went upstairs then downstairs (repeat x10), and fought naps, threw fits, learned about timeout, saw Mimi practice deep breathing, and got so much glorious time together that our cups darn near runneth over (and maybe spilled a little).
Like, I think I lived 14 lives during those 11 days. I’ve aged. I’m different now.
I’m a warrior, scarred but victorious, and ready to take on my triple-digit email inbox. I made it out alive and with a surprising regeneration of excitement for all the projects I said I’d take care of in the new year that are now practically staring me in the face with arms crossed and toes a-tapping.
Come at me, bro.
Bring your deadlines and your complex challenges, work. Bring your lack of sticky fingers, diapers and “Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood.” Gimme those frozen lunches and adult conversations. I’m ready!
Because what else could remind me by 11 a.m. my first day back just how much I love and miss that little toddling stinker?
Marina Gomberg is a communications professional and lives in Salt Lake City with her wife, Elenor Gomberg, and their son, Harvey. You can reach Marina at mgomberg@sltrib.com.
