Le Petit woke up last night at around one-thirty calling for "maman." Since we've noticed in the past that he falls back asleep more quickly when Daddy intervenes instead of Mommy, I let my husband go in to check on him. I heard my husband whisper something and le Petit mumble something back, then there was silence. A few minutes later my husband came to bed.
"Was he ok?" I asked.
He was fine. But when he saw that it wasn't me who entered the room, he said with disappointment and resignation, "Maman est partie au travail." Mommy's left for work. He was repeating what my husband tells him when he looks for me after I've left in the morning.
While I don't regret going back to work four days a week, I'll admit it, those words stirred up some latent Mommy-guilt.
Le Petit woke two more times during the night, but didn't ask for either of us. Instead he started into a toddler monologue involving Peter Rabbit, the Three Little Pigs, and a bunch of other things we couldn't quite understand over the baby monitor. My husband went back in to resettle him, which took a while. After such a fractured and restless night, le Petit wasn't stirring until long after I'd left for work this morning. I felt bad leaving -- he's used to having at least a little time with me before I head off -- but I figured it was more important for him to catch up on his sleep.
"He ran around the house looking for you, then cried when I told him you'd left," my husband reported over the phone.
"Then I gave him some brioche and he forgot all about it."
I don't know what made me feel worse, that I was missed so terribly, or that I was so readily forgotten over a breakfast pastry.