Om, the Irony

In March, Ben's cousin Ember gave me a piece from her ceramics class that she (rightly) thought I might appreciate. This July, after a successful transplant from the back to front yard, I placed my Om plate on the rocks surrounding our rose bush. Today, as I sat reading the paper on the front porch while Harrison played on the steps and grass nearby, I suddenly heard a rustling from the rock/rose bed. I looked up just in time to see him carrying the plate, headed straight for the sidewalk where he promptly, after looking at me over his shoulder first, dropped it.

"Broken? Broken!" is what he said. Somehow, I managed not to say much, even though some choice words went through my mind. I guess the power of the Om was with me as I calmly collected the pieces and hauled HD's troublesomeness back in the house. I will say, however, I was less than pleased with him for the remainder of the morning. As much as I'd like to think that it was an accident, and perhaps it was just a lesson in cause and effect, my feelings were hurt by his actions. During this trying week with him, the irony of this broken symbol is not lost on me. Good thing I still have the one on my wrist to remind me to breathe....

The Bad Stuff

Last night, in a rare moment of "me" time, I got to go out for supper with friends. Ben stayed home to feed, bathe, and put Harrison to bed. It turned out to be perfect timing as Little Man and I had an especially trying day yesterday. I know my lack of sleep this week was part of crawl-in-the-cave morning, but I also have a sinking suspicion that HD is not only feeding off the energy of my late-stage-pregnancy-hormone-mood swings, but also sensing that a big change is coming soon.

Among other subjects discussed during dinner, my friends and I recalled a time two years ago when three of the four of us had had babies within the year (two of us within the last three months) and one was about to have hers within the next few weeks. We were all a bit shell-shocked. There was an evening we rallied for take-out dinner from our favorite local pub and all of the ladies ended up in the nursery talking openly and honestly about just how hard this parenting gig was at times. The newest mom, who had felt like she was the only struggling, looked around with a mouth wide open and asked, "Why don't we talk about this stuff? We have to talk about the bad stuff, too!" As we relived that conversation last night, I thought, how fitting for the day Harrison and I had just experienced. My default, when talking to other people about our bad days, is to crack jokes and smile - the grin and bare it approach, I guess, to parenting. But some days, I can't help but wonder why don't we just talk about the bad stuff? Why do we try to smile and pretend like everything is sunshine and roses?


Even though my dinner out (away, alone, as an adult/individual) was lovely, my spirit was still feeling defeated when I got home. I considered blogging last night but knew that doing so would come off as whiny and self-indulgent. Even at my worst, I can still recognize and appreciate that so many other parents out there have situations far more difficult than my own. Single parent homes...military homes...parents of children who are ill or suffering....all of these people pass through my mind when I am feeling particularly sorry for myself and I know that I am so fortunate, so blessed to have the life I do. But (there is always a but), I have come to learn that parenting is difficult no matter what your situation may be and that anything can feel so much worse when you assume that you are alone & the only one who has ever felt this way.  

I know I am not the first tired pregnant lady. I know I am not the first mother to struggle with handling an energetic toddler (hello, the "terrible twos" was a phrase invented long before Harrison came into this world!). & I know I'm not the first parent to wonder if they are royally screwing up their kid for life at each new turn. I need to remember these things when it feels like I am all alone in The Bad Stuff. Because like it or not, every day is not going to perfect. Boundaries and patience levels will be tested. Buttons (literal and figurative) will be pushed. The Bad Stuff will happen. But (there is always a but), the choice I need to make, for myself and for how I approach my children, is to know that The Good Stuff will come again. Always. It may need to be prompted by good friends, chocolate, coffee, wine, etc. but surely, if we face The Bad Stuff head on - talk about it instead of ignoring it - we will get there. Always.

35 1/2 Weeks Pregnant. Or, How I Became an Insomniac.

Seriously. I am tired. I really, really am. But for the second night in a row, I find myself wide eyed in the middle of the night, totally unable to shut off my mind. Monday into Tuesday, I woke up at 4:00 and didn't get back to "sleep" until after 6:00; even then, all I did was have crazy dreams about changing diapers - how fun. & this was all after it took until almost midnight to fall asleep! Last night into this morning, it was 3:00. & what am I thinking about? Grocery shopping, mostly. Really? What is wrong with my head?

Both mid-night wakings were, of course, initiated by an it's-almost-the-ninth-month-pregnant-bladder, but why I can't then just go back to bed is beyond me. I know when I will be tired...in approx. 6 hours when Harrison is running around with his mid-morning spurt of energy. That is when I will want to be curled up on the couch, or better yet, in my bed. But since it's the All Mama, All the Time show during the day, and no caffeine in sight until after this baby comes, we shall hope and pray that I at least make it through until he goes down for his nap and then I too can, mercifully, crash into a heap.

4 Days, 12 Meals

If you do the math, 12 meals in 4 days makes perfect sense. But clearly I am either very, very pregnant or just plain crazy, because in the last 4 days (starting Thursday evening and lasting until this morning), I made 12 extra meals, which clearly does not make sense. And these were not just any old meals. These were casseroles and marinades and sides that, to some extent, involved a heck of a lot more cooking/prep than I normally do. And did I mention the number of loads of dishes? Probably close to 12 as well!

Here is what I looked like Friday evening, three meals in:

Notice the slightly exasperated expression, but decent clothes and make up to boot.

There are no pictures of me from yesterday or this morning. There is only this:

This is, perhaps, the most beautiful sight I have seen in days. This is my completed list of freezer-ready dishes made, minus the Sloppy Joes that I did Thursday night, giving this whole crazy project its kick start. I did not go in the order I planned, nor I did go this adventure alone. Ben was an excellent chef's assistant, especially when my pregnant back and belly could not take one more minute of standing at the stove, whisking butter, flour, and various seasonings to make a white sauce or base for a cheese dish. He was supposed to be working on homework all weekend, but he is not only helpful but also kind; he told me that family stuff just has to come first sometimes.

And really, that is what this whirlwind of weekend work was all about....getting ready to expand our little family. I meant to do something like this before Harrison was born but never did. This time around, the idea of cooking ahead was again rolling around in my brain, but like so much else, kept getting forgotten or overlooked in the day-to-day chaos. But this weekend HD was off to the farm with Grandma and Grandpa Welsch, so I took full advantage of my 56 free hours and went to town in my teeny, tiny kitchen. If you know my relationship with my house, you know that I consider my kitchen to be the structure's Achilles' heel for its lack of storage and counter space. Without a toddler around to disturb the work in process, though, my kitchen and I managed to pull off a tremendous feat. Did I mention that I also made a slow cook roast for supper last night and fresh rolls to make said roast into BBQ sandwiches? And that I'm making meatballs tonight? Surely this must be some form of nesting!

Friday morning, as I pushed my very full, very heavy shopping cart around the grocery store, I thought I must have lost my mind. I mean, I was even buying onions to saute and put in dishes - something I never do. But here I am, Sunday afternoon, with a freezer chest full of what I hope are tasty dishes that we will get to enjoy in the coming months after BWNo.2 arrives. That is perhaps the funniest and the looniest part of this whole venture. With the exception of the mashed potatoes, we have never tried any of these specific recipes. But, as my very wise father pointed out, they will taste just fine simply because they will mean that we don't have to cook on the days when we are dragging our tired bodies from one diaper change to the next. Works for me!

And now, on to that final load of dishes...

This is Not Moppy Bams

As part of my day "job" requires, I listen to a LOT of kid music. I am OK with that. I have embraced the fact that the high, sing-songy children's albums out there will be my norm for the foreseeable future. But every now and then, this mama and music lover needs a break.

Apparently, Harrison needs breaks, too. Lately, when he's in the middle of a complete meltdown, and I have no idea what else to do, I go the iPod, search out some of my music to turn on and then go about my business (while keeping him in eyesight, of course) until the storm passes. I don't think that my music is the key, but it certainly helps me from joining him in the tears and kicking on the floor, so maybe it is helping more than I realize.

Seeing as our morning started before 7:00 today, when he's been sleeping in past 7:30 all week, it is no surprise that today brought out the need for Mama's music. You wouldn't think that extra 30 minutes would mean so much, but with my child, it is all in the (sleep) details. In the midst of trying to warm up lunch and get HD into his chair, he decided the world had ended and nothing I could do or say was going to fix it. So I let him work it out on his own and sat down by myself at the table to eat until he was calm enough to join me. To give us something else to listen to besides the wailing, I turned on a live album from Guster.

It seems that when I need to cool myself down because Harrison needs to cool himself down, I turn to some of my oldie by goodie music. Not true oldies, mind you...just the bands that have been my favorites for well over a decade even though their albums have been sorely neglected in recent years. It seems that I almost always need the mellow moods and gorgeous guitars of Dave Matthews and Guster when the tantrums strike.

When Harrison is feeling mellow, one of his favorite questions is, "What's this called?" We have not entered the Phase of Why yet, but I figure this is the first stepping stone to getting us there because this question is asked, on average, dozens of times each day. When I first started play DMB during our meals a few weeks ago, Harrison pointed to the stereo and of course asked, "What's this called?" So I told him we were listening to the Dave Matthews Band. Somehow this became translated, in Harrison-speak, to Moppy Bams. No idea how or why, but when he first said it back to me, I couldn't help but laugh which instantly cemented the name in his brain because my child loves to get reactions (good and bad) from people. But really - Moppy Bams?! How comical is that?

This week, our band of choice has been Guster. Today, when I told him what "this" was called, he repeated the band's name several times before grinning and saying, "This is Moppy Bams? No! This is Guster!" And then the grin and the phrase were on repeat because clearly he was pleased with his little joke. I have to say, it made me smile, too, which is great because having the two of us both smiling was a big improvement from where we were 15 minutes prior in our day.

Thank goodness for unexpected discoveries. I never would have guessed that my old jam bands would be soothing to my son's soul, but it's nice to know that he goes on smiling, even after the world has ended for the third time in one day.

Small Grapes

If you are unfamiliar with Patti Digh's blog, 37 Days, you should really take a few minutes to explore it. There is also a book called Life is a Verb if you have the time and trust me, it is worth the reading, writing, and creating involved. I started the book a year about a year ago and one of my favorite entries is about Carrying a Small Grape. The gist of the story is how Patti's young daughter finds extreme wonder and joy in carrying around a small grape and in the book Patti challenges her readers to find or create something small that will do the same for them. Some small token that will bring them happiness or even just help them crack a smile when they need it most. Here are pictures of the two sides of my own "small grape" that I made last fall. It is about the size of a business card, meant to fit easily in my wallet.

As you can see, I included a few of my favorite things: words, autumn leaves, pancakes, funky socks and my little HD. I am looking back at my own small grape right now because it seems that Harrison himself has some small grapes and I wonder if I'll always be able to remember them, even though right now they seem impossible to forget.

Small Grape #1 isn't small. In fact, it is huge and yellow. Harrison loves seeing school buses and will spot them from a mile away when we're driving in the van. Just this morning, on our way to run some errands, he called out, "Oh my goodness! A school bus coming!" I love that can get so excited about something as simple as a bus and I also love that I have taught him to say "Oh my goodness" instead of some of the more, ahem - colorful - expressions that I have used in my lifetime.

Small Grape #2 isn't small either. And in fact, it too comes in the form of a large vehicle (hmmm, I see a pattern forming here!). On Mondays and Thursdays, trash (yard, then waste, respectively) is collected in our neighborhood. Again, the delight and joy that HD finds in watching these early morning events unfold is unbelievable. He can actually hear the trucks working their gears as they lumber up the block and will go running for the nearest window to watch them approach, yelling, "Garbage truck coming! Oh boy! Garbage truck!" He also is very appreciative of their work as they move past our house and has been known to wave to the garbage men and their trucks, telling them thank you and that they worked hard. This one, I have in picture form, although I wish I could have captured his face as well:

Small Grapes are amazing, even when they aren't small at all. Harrison's tastes and preferences will change so much in the months and years to come. I just hope and pray that no matter what brings him joy, he'll always be able to keep some of those pleasures simple and pure like they are now in his two-year-old world. And if the child grows up and someday operates large vehicles in some capacity or another, his mama won't be surprised at all.

Here We Go, Go, Go, Go...

Our day together began at 7:15 this morning. Daddy was already gone, off to a conference that lasts today and tomorrow. Mind you, this is the start of our second six-day week. In a row. These weeks are challenging for Harrison and I because, by the Thursday or Friday of it, we've honestly had enough of just the two of us time. Not to say we don't still adore each other (will have to say more about HD's sudden separation anxiety another time), because that love still comes out in small moments, even on the worst days. The lizard days. Days like last Friday.

Perhaps my worst parenting moment to date occurred Friday morning when it took 45 minutes to get Harrison to sit for 1 minute in time out. On facebook, I equated this, at 8 months pregnant, to running 5 miles. Physically, it was that exhausting. Emotionally, it was even worse. At least after a run, I always felt a warmth, a sense of accomplishment. After that epic battle I felt spent, like I wanted to curl up in a cave and hand this whole parenting gig over to someone far more patient and qualified. But then, you get the small moments. The little hand resting on your leg as you read a story together. The intoxicating smell of baby lotion after a bath. Some days, these small moments are the only thing getting me through the ups and down of toddlerhood.

Today we took a different approach to the start of our second long week. I walked in at 7:15 and asked Harrison, straight off, if he'd like to go on an adventure. (Sidebar: we are big PBS fans, which means The Cat in the Hat is a favorite. Hence the show's theme song and one of our favorite ditties to sing: "Here we go, go, go go on an adventure!") It is a good thing, in retrospect, that he agreed immediately and wholeheartedly, because we were going either way, but I figure it is always nice to give the kiddo some buy in power when I can. When he found out that said adventure meant we were headed to his see his three-month-old baby cousin, Trevin, be baptized, he was thrilled. The whole way through breakfast and into the van and down the highway, all I heard was how we were going to see Baby Trevin. Of course, seeing the rest of Ben's family was a big bonus incentive as Harrison loves, loves, loves his cousin and his grandparents and their farm.

Normally I am not so brave. I do not travel long distances (anything over 20 minutes) with Harrison and without Ben, mainly because my back hates me a lot at times which makes travel (alone) with a toddler difficult. Seeing as we were headed to a family-filled event and then to Ben's parent's house for the rest of the day, though, I decided it was worth the experience, the time together, and just the plain old factor of getting out of the house to see other people.

Turns out I was right. Harrison had a great time seeing Trevin this morning. He even lasted the entire church service in the pew with us. Granted, he bounced from my lap, then to Grandpa's, and then to Grandma's about 50 times, and ate a lot of Kix and a bag of fruit snacks, but still - no crying and no tantrums. I'll take that any day! And with extra eyes to watch and arms to lift, we sailed through the morning like we are old pros at this. Amazing. Is my back sore after the long day? Yes. Is the baby moving in ways that make me both uncomfortable and anxious as I check the calendar to see just what date it is? Yes. But wouldn't this have been the case if we had just stayed home today and done the same old, same old? I'd have to guess, Yes!

Perhaps I need to propose more adventure days. Maybe we don't even need to go anywhere outside of city limits to have these adventures. Perhaps just starting the days off right - with a little fun, a little excitement, a little mystery - would set us down the path of having more adventures and discoveries and less crawl-in-the-cave moments. One could only hope, right?

Hair Crumbs

In the last year or so, Harrison has had a handful of haircuts. There have never been major tears or tantrums, but some appointments have gone better than others. Yesterday's appointment was a dream!

First of all, HD sat beautifully in his daddy's lap the whole time and entertained himself by making faces in the mirror and at Mama. He followed directions by looking down at his shoes when asked and even said, "Again?" for the spray bottle of water to be spritzed on his head. But the best part? The hair crumbs.

As the hair dresser (a temporary new one for our family, as ours is out for her own maternity leave) trimmed away the little blond curls and wisps, lots of hair fell down, naturally, on Harrison's lap and smock. He loves the smock, by the way, because it is covered in colorful "fishies." Apparently, though, he does not like the fishies to be covered by his hair because he kept trying to shake, blow, and wipe away the strays. And then, all of the sudden, he surprised all three of us by proclaiming that he was getting rid of the "hair crumbs" - a true example of the power of words when applied to a toddler's train of thought. The hair dresser said she'd never heard that one before, and we all laughed as he continued to point them out to us throughout the rest of the cut.

I love HD's hair after a trim, just as I love it when it is longer and curly. He looks more like a little man with it short, but clearly that fits because that's exactly what he is, what with his knowledge of hair crumbs and all.

9/11 + 10 =

In the grand scheme of things, my experiences on 9/11 were nothing grand. Yet, today, on the 10th anniversary, I feel compelled to remember the day and what it was to me, for me. A friend posted on facebook about how kids under the age of 16 really have no concept of the attack, unless, of course, they lost a loved one. While that makes sense, it amazes me because I can't imagine not knowing, not feeling the weight of this day. I feel it all the time, am reminded all of the time of that day and its impact on our nation - our world.

When I really sit down and think, I don't remember much from the actual morning of 9/11. While I remember very clearly about first learning of the towers falling, the rest of the day is blur. I was a sophomore at Doane that year and had gotten up to do to a Taebo workout in my dormroom before heading to class. & yes, I remember that detail specifically. I also remember that prior to starting the tape (yes, vhs), my TV was set to CMT. When I finished the routine and switched back to the normal television screen, I did not see a country music video. In fact, what I did see confused me so much, I thought something had gone wrong with my cable. I was watching a war zone; at least, that is it what the smoke filled streets and running people made me think of as I tried to piece together what on earth was going on. After that, I don't know how it all came together. I'm sure I spent a lot of the day talking with my dormmates and calling my family. I'm guessing I went to class and lunch and supper. I do remember, vaguely, attending a candle-lit vigil that night but somehow it didn't mend the hole that had been ripped in my sense of America or my sense of security as an American.

A week later I remember going shopping with my roommate, thinking the whole time - we are at war (even though, technically, that hadn't happened yet)...how important is it that I buy new clothes? But life carries on and so did we, in every small way we could. If my grandparents could come through WWII and go on to have families and lives, I figured we too would find a way to grow up and grow old, even though I also knew that something in the world had changed.

Perhaps the biggest direct impact 9/11 had on my college life came through the sudden spike in fear that my family had about my plans for the following school year, the fall of 2002, when I was set to travel to Africa for an entire semester. They balked at the idea of me traveling abroad, and really, those of us in the Africa semester group did wonder for some time if we'd be allowed to go. My argument to my parents? There are no guarantees, not even here, so why not explore and learn in every way possible? While I can't say they were ever 100% behind the idea, they let me go.

On the one year anniversary of 9/11, I was in Arusha, Tanzania. I remember sitting in a tiny cafe eating supper that night, listening to the radio broadcasting the news, and all of the sudden, there was W.'s voice, snippets of his speech from the memorial that was taking place halfway around the world. It was surreal to be so far away from home and yet so connected to a day I know I'll never fully understand.

Ten years later and I feel the same way. I still don't get it. I don't know why people hate or why they mistrust and take out their own fears and frustrations on others who have done them no harm. I also don't know how we can still be fighting wars over this, but that's not to say that I think those lives lost weren't worth defending. I do know that I am grateful. Grateful for the brave men and women in our armed services who tackle the most difficult tasks each day - something I would never have the strength or courage to do. Grateful for the education, travel, and experiences I've had in the last ten years that have taught me much about the world as well as tolerance and acceptance. Grateful for my loving family, kind husband, beautiful son, and the sweet little one about to join us. For all of these reasons, I am so glad that we have found a way to carry on beyond the terror and fear of that day ten years ago. All that being said, I hope we never forget and never let that gratitude go. We cannot live this life alone. But perhaps we can find a way to live it together with more joy and more peace.

How Does He Know?

Today I have to take HD w/ me to an appointment in Grand Island. Silly mommy-brain...I didn't leave enough time for Ben to make it home so I could make the trek alone like I normally do. This is OK; he's gone with me to this same place before and handled it just fine. What I thought we would do though, for kicks, was hit up Khol's for a little shopping prior to my appointment. Remember my restlessness and desire to shop? Yeah, still dealing with that. But all I'm looking to buy is a cardigan - something that will work post-baby-body as well as in the present time, promise.

So. Here I sit, waiting almost, for Harrison to wake up from his nap. How does he do this? When I want to take advantage of nap time by also sleeping (which has been happening a lot since I entered my third trimester of pregnancy), he barely sleeps an hour and fifteen minutes. Today, when I would like to hit the road sooner than later, he snoozes and snoozes and snoozes. I would like to think that if I just pretended each day that I had some really important (OK, Khol's is not that important, but still), maybe I could lure him into napping for these long, glorious chunks of time. Chunks of time that would allow me to decompress, too.

But I know my son and he is so much smarter than that (and me). He would know, without fail, that I was trying to trick him. And he would, no doubt, be awake in no time.

Give to Mama

Small wonders today....such as having a babysitter for an hour this morning so Mama could do some yoga and take a relaxing shower....such as Harrison still getting to go to the park to see the ducks without his own Mama having to waddle to get there....such as a gardener noticing HD's interest in smelling the flowers and then cutting two pink buds and telling him he should take them home to his mommy....such as a delighted two-year-old running in the house, a flower in each hand, hollering, "Give to Mama! Give to Mama!"

Restless

It started yesterday afternoon and has yet to cease. I have no idea what I want or want to do but I cannot shake this feeling - this urge - to want and to want to do. But with no answers or even ideas (other than shopping, and really, at 8 months pregnant? What is the point?), I sit here feeling stuck.

My darling husband suggested last night that maybe I should clean. Did he not get the memo about being 8 months pregnant? When I gave him the raised, incredulous eyebrow look, he quickly recanted and said that he meant, "you know - nesting stuff." OK. Nesting I could probably get behind, but I've kind of already done a lot of that with the whole painting the basement, organizing the kitchen cupboards, and going through the storage containers to find newborn gear. And really, after getting through the first two weeks of Ben being back to teaching, I'm a little bit sick of the house. Even now he is at the high school football game while Harrison sleeps soundly in the room next to me, which is quiet and peaceful, but the fact remains that it's just me and the dogs and the house and this extreme sense of not knowing what to do.

I haven't hit the ready-to-be-done-with-being-pregnant wall quite yet and that is a good thing seeing as I have 7ish weeks left to go. So if I know it isn't that, then perhaps it has a bit to do with knowing that we've hit the so close, yet so far away stage of the pregnancy. I cannot begin to fathom what life will be like when BWNo.2 arrives, but I seem to be itching to get there (don't worry, Mom. I'm not actually itching!). That, or I just really want to go shopping.

Coming Back

Today, for the very first time, Harrison and I tried out a MOPS meeting. We hadn't gone previously because the meeting time conflicted with HD's morning nap, and if you know anything about us, you know we are crazy about honoring the almighty nap. (Side note: wonder what BWNo.2's naps will be like. How will we ever be as good at getting those in as we were for Harrison?)

The overall impression was a good one. It was amazing to see just how many women were there and really nice to hear that I'm not the only one who has ups and downs with parenting. But I'll say more about that another time. For now, my mind is on just how heartbreaking it was to leave Harrison with the childcare providers and walk myself up to the meeting room to start the morning.

Honestly, I don't know how moms (and dads) do this every day at daycare. I guess it must get easier, but this was our first experience of leaving Harrison in a strange, new place with strange, new people and it was a tad bit dramatic (and traumatic!). When we first walked into the 2-3 yr. old's room, it was just fine. There were crafts, colors, and some young girls floating about looking over the growing herd. One little girl, though, was whimpering. And soon another one started. And then another. And then I tried to focus Harrison's attention on his football coloring sheet so I could scoot out the door and wouldn't you know it - he joined the chorus of criers! The big fat tears, the clinging to my neck - it was all just too much for me. So I sat. & I colored. & I looked at the other moms coming and going and wondered if I'd even make it to the darn meeting.

Soon a mom I know came in with her son and I decided it was a now or never moment. Along with another new mom who was struggling to detach, we more or less just bolted. Of course I gave HD a kiss and told him I'd be back, and then I left him with the teenager who was standing there ready and willing to distract. Now, in my defense, I can blame what happened next on the fact that I'm pregnant and that, as I've come to learn, makes a girl a bit emotional. But just like my little man, I started crying! OK, maybe not full on crying, but I got totally teared up as I walked (ran) from that Sunday school classroom with the other moms. It was so hard to leave him feeling so confused and because I'm with him ALL the time, we just have no experience at how to handle this. Knowing that a little social interaction would be good for both of us, though, I did my best to hold back the waterworks. & seeing as no one ever came to get me to say that my child was a total basketcase, I guess he calmed down as well. Full disclosure? I have a feeling this scene (tears for both) would have played out even if I wasn't full of pregnancy hormones.

When we got home a couple hours later, and I was helping Harrison from the carseat, he told me, "Mama came back!" This, along with big, hiccupy hug that I got when I went to pick him up, made my day. By some sort of divine intervention, we checked out Llama Llama Misses Mama last week from the library and have been reading it a lot ever since. In the story, Little Llama misses his mama when he goes to school for the first time, but they ultimately have a happy reunion ("Mama Llama! You came back!!!") at the end of the day. How fantastic to know that my son is not only learning from the books we read together, but also to see that he knows his own mama loves him to pieces and will always come back. Too bad I won't always have the excuse of the baby bump when his growing up makes me choke up in the future.