My daughter isn’t a baby anymore. At least that is what she tells me every morning. I guess she wants to make sure I haven’t forgotten while she slept. It is like being punched in the gut. While cradling a doll in one arm and a blanket in another she will say, “Guess what?” I know what’s coming, but I don’t want to hear it. For her, it’s exciting to grow up. It breaks my heart. After two miscarriages I am pretty sure this is my last baby. I guess my dreams of becoming the next Kate Gosselin are over. Do you think Bravo’s Real Housewives franchise wants a woman who shops at The Dollar Store and colors her own hair?
My clock is ticking. I actually think it ticks, then stops and ticks again. Thus, my perimenopausal rage. Well, at least that is what Dr. Oz diagnosed it as in a 60 minute episode. I just thought I was a bitch. (No comment from the peanut gallery.)
In a few short weeks my daughter will turn three. Before you know it she will be five, 13 and off to college. Then, what the hell am I supposed to do with myself? I guess there is always BINGO. “I’m not a baby anymore,” she proudly declares. “I’m a big kid.” Little does she know, she will always be my baby.
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