Bad, bad mummy

The Minx started nursery school this month. Two full days a week when I can focus properly on mirror mirror and have a bit of 'me' time.

Well in theory.  I never once dreamed that my self-confident, independently-minded baby would object so strongly to being left in a big room full of fabulous toys, interesting babies and lovely carers. 

Or that she would prefer the company of her frequently distracted and inevitably grumpy mother, who occasionally fits in a bit of absent-minded childcare between urgent emails, urgent phone calls and swearing at the buggy.

But object she does, and each day I've taken her to nursery she tugs at my heart-strings by weeping inconsolably and stretching her arms out for a hug before being carried away by the girls who look after her.

So my glorious, wondrous hours of time to myself come heavily tinged with guilt, even though every time I go to fetch her, I'm told that she's had a wonderful day and has played happily after I've gone.  Today, just to make me feel even worse, she sat in my arms when I collected her, looked around in solemn, somewhat bewildered, and slightly tearful fashion and then, very clearly, said 'mamma'.  For the first time ever. Minx.