She cries and begs, "Please don't go! Don't go to work!" I explain in words too vague for the four year old clinging to my leg. It's hard to leave. She wipes away the tears and follows me to the kitchen. Her tiny hands reach for fruit and she packs my lunch with a banana pulled from the bunch. Strawberries spill on the floor and she finds one rolled under the cabinet. "You need one more strawberry, Mom." It goes in the ziploc - lint and all. They walk me outside and cover me with kisses. The crisp air grabs her arms and she runs away - back inside to the steaming oatmeal waiting on the table. I spend my day under papers and phone calls. Constantly trying to lasso my thoughts back in - I don't want to be here. Arriving home, I am wrapped with legs and arms. "Hug me, Mom!" She gets right to the point . "Popcorn?" She is hungry and knows I am too. All the ingredients are at her fingertips and she teeters on the ch
Blogging a little.