Today started before dawn, and has been quite busy. And quite productive; I will wrap up my work in a bit, take a call with a (potential) new client, and finish up the laundry. This afternoon, with any luck, we will go out as a family and squeeze a bit of fun out of one of the last free weekdays Anya has before school starts in earnest.
I’m cranky, and tense, as I get when my to-do list is long and the hours are short. And Anya keeps interrupting me, which doesn’t help.
But her reasons are legitimate. She wants some milk. She needs help reaching something. (Her father is napping with her little brother — the tiny dictator who insisted we rise before dawn, then went to sleep again.) In the past, such interruptions were because she was bored, or lonely, or just wanted to give me a hug.
I grew impatient at those interruptions. I fussed at her. So her interruptions today are quiet. Polite. And infrequent.
She’s growing up on me.
It was just last week that she was that impatient toddler. Wasn’t it? The one who begged me to stop work and spend time with her? The one I snapped at for needing her mother?
I’d wanted to spend more time with that little girl. But I got busy, and I missed her. Now there’s a tall, graceful girl in her place.
So I hope you’ll excuse the short, aimless post. I want to hurry up and get back to her. I don’t want to miss any more of her childhood.