My nine-year-old son is the center of my universe. This is the story of his childhood as it unfolds. Please read the first post, "Why I started this blog," to know more.

Friday, March 21, 2008

"Where are you, Mamma?"

It was 10.30 am when my cellphone rang. My husband’s number flashed on the screen so I took the call. “Hello?”
“Mamma?” It was Munchkin.
“Hey, baby. Good morning.” I said. He’d been asleep when I left home this morning. He and his father had the day off – it’s Good Friday – but my office was working. I’d given the little brat a hug and a kiss before I left but he hadn’t woken up. I let him sleep.
“Mamma, where are you?” he said, sounding close to tears.
“I’m at the office, sweetie. What’s wrong?” I said as I ducked into an empty conference room to talk in private.
“At the office?” he sounded worse now. “Oh, mamma!”

*Cue for working mom guilt to stir below the surface.*

“What’s wrong, baby? Are you alright?”
“I woke up and searched for you and you weren’t anywhere in the house.”
“Aw…I’m sorry, baby. Where’s Daddy?”
“He’s still sleeping,” he wailed. Sleeping? At 10.30! “I’m all alone.”

*Cue for working mom guilt to break the surface and bubble over.*

“So you called me on your own? You can dial from Daddy’s phone?”
“Yes, I can. Can you come home, Mamma?”
“I wish I could,” I told him…and meant it.
“Go wake up Daddy. He has plans for the two of you.”
“He’ll get mad. He doesn’t like to be woken up.”
“No, baby. It’s okay. Go wake him up.”
“But I want to see you, Mamma. I woke up and you weren’t there.”

*Cue for working mom guilt to flood and melt my insides.*

“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry about that. But I gave you a big hug before I left. You have a holiday so I let you sleep late. Now go wake up Daddy…” I said.
“He’s just coming out of his room now,” said the little fellow. I breathed a sigh or relief.
“Give him the phone, baby.”
“When will you come, Mamma?”
“As soon as I can.” *sob*
Then the DH took the phone. “He’s upset,” I told him.
“He’ll be okay. I’ll distract him,” the DH croaked. I could hear Munchkin asking for the phone again.
“Mamma, will you try to come home early today?”
“I will, dear. I promise.”
“He’s okay,” said DH. “Don’t worry.”

I’ll try not to. That’s all I can do. T.R.Y. I normally don’t have working moms’ guilt for a variety of reasons. But every once in a while, it’s something you can’t avoid.

*Cue to banish the monster back to its subterranean lair.*

Until next time, that is…

*Cue to bawl my eyes out in the washroom.*

Photo from


A Week In The Life of A Redhead said...

And people wonder why we mothers and fathers act like NFL tackles breaking the line as we exit the doors/stairs/elevators from work...
I always say ..."Beware of the passing redhead at 5pm ...if you are slow I could kill you with a left jab to the ribs as I force you to the side...I am on my way home to my [insert son, daughter,kids many children here]." I can relate to every word you write, especially since our boys are the 'little man' part of the men we loved and had se* with to bring them into the world. They soooooo tug at our heartstrings.
I love your blog.
Catherine, the redheaded blogger


Thanks, Catherine. And yes, I've indulged in some 'verbal violence' in trying to get home on time! :-P