Occasionally in my work research, I stumble into books about child development. Today, I am flipping through Hood's The Self Illusion. It will not be useful for work, but there's a chapter on Romanian orphanages, the eighteenth-century French wild-boy Victor, and children separated, too-young, from their mothers. The old pang returns: god almighty. Have I already ruined my children? Voice went to daycare at 9 months, Smiles at 6 months. Both for part-time hours, but still. Did they bond enough (and the attendant pang: then they wanted to be with me all the time. Every day they, now 8 and 6 years old, want me a little less?)?
I am hoping the severity of today's maternal guilt/loss is the result of inadequate sleep. BF's children have challenging sleep patterns that really mess with me. Bow, for instance, likes to show up at around 11.30pm (when I have just managed to fall deeply asleep) to request snuggles. Wisp came to the big bed last night around 3AM and wiggled and kicked until she had taken up a surprising amount of the available space . . .
I am pooped. I did not turn on the stereo loudly at 6.30 this morning to wake the then sleeping children. Maybe that is my commendable act of the day?