My daughter, while beloved, is not an easy child. She is very much her own person, yet I see glimpses of my own childhood in her. I know she’s not me, but goddamn this daughter of mine has so much Nielson running through her Millar veins that I can’t help but pity Chris. He now has two stubborn, impatient, always right and often hangry women in his life. No wonder he retreats to the basement so much.
I’ve shifted my entire world to spend as much time as possible with Francis while she’s young enough to still like me. The days she’s with me all day are the longest and most difficult days, yet the days she goes to school? I miss her. Like seriously, miss her.
Going to pick her up is the highlight of my solo days. Not my freelance work, getting things done around the house, child-free errands, having enough quiet time to listen to a podcast, or even finally using the rest room alone.
The highlight is when that empty carseat in the back of my car is suddenly filled with very loud sass. I’m usually this giddy on my way to pick her up…
I don’t even know who I am anymore, but I’m soaking it all up because she won’t be little much longer. And while I won’t miss the screaming tantrums, I’ll really miss the fifteen hugs she gives me once the screaming subsides.