Raising a Baby Goat

I’ve decided that newborn babies are a bit like goats. They make little bleating noises when they’re hungry or sleepy or poopy, and they’re stubborn, too. My darling boy knows he has his mother wrapped around his finger, and all he has to do is whimper and I’ll cuddle him up against my chest. There’s something about a warm, sleeping baby that can knock me out quicker than Ambien.

And tomorrow, I have to give him to someone else. All day, while I go back to work.

With my first child, I was itching to go back to work. I felt like teaching defined me, and I was losing myself being trapped at home, subject to the whims of a baby.

With my second child, I planned it so my maternity leave ran into summer break, and I didn’t have to go back until September. When she started daycare, it didn’t bother me as much because I knew she was in good hands.

With this baby, I’m a sentimental wreck. He’s my last child, and I’m treasuring every single moment. He’s growing up so fast, right before my eyes. Even the thought of handing him over tomorrow makes me want to clutch him tighter. He’s mine, and nobody else will love him quite as much. Yesterday I went through his clothing, setting aside all the 0-3 month sizes because they don’t fit anymore. I’ll be donating them to charity or to a friend expecting a baby boy, and it was harder than I thought. Many of the outfits have special memories.

Oh, there will be new ones. But baby memories are so precious and so sweet. I have to remember that when it’s 2:30 a.m. and I’m bleary-eyed from less than three hours of sleep. I’ll blink, and he’ll be in kindergarten.

P.S.–thanks to the Mills and Boon editors for the shirt. It’s one of his favorites.