I had a meeting with my boss when I was 9 months pregnant, nearly ripping at the seams of my maternity shirt.  I was uncomfortable and somewhat cantankerous and I was itching from every pore, eager to get this cumbersome pregnancy over with.  I wanted to expel the baby, and...love him a bit, of course - but more than anything, I wanted to get back to work.  I wanted to make phone calls, send emails and get stuff done, without a gigantic protruding belly, niggling worry about my potential skills as a Mother, and constant heartburn.

“Gary, I’ll be back at work in 6 months,”I assured my manager,”I can’t wait to return.”

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I arrived at Nolan’s daycare this morning, late and whirl-winded as always, clutching my son’s bicycle helmet and a Spiderman lunchbag shamefully including Zoodles.  Again.  I took off his boots and put on his horrendous indoor Crocs and signed him in as I watched him run to his playmates out of the corner of my eye.

I put down the lunch bag and watched him hug Helen, the cheery young teacher with the gorgeous Spanish accent.  She hugged him back, warmly, and I thought - man, am I glad we’re done with all the drop off crying.

I exchanged pleasantries with the teachers and turned around to see a handwritten sign on the door.  It was signed by Rosie, one of three providers at my son’s daycare, and his very favorite.

I scanned the note and my heart sunk: Rosie had accepted another job.  Her last day would be Friday.  She wished all her buddies very well, and thanked all the parents for welcoming her with such open arms.

She’d only been at this daycare for 6 months, an Irish transplant with an infectious smile and a warm spirit.  She was always special to my son, who took to her sweet, motherly ways immediately.  Nolan often talked about Rosie and the songs she sings and the books she reads: she’d won his heart and so she’d won mine too.

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I attended the pirate party of a 4-year-old classmate of my son on the weekend, a fete filled with Spiderman face painting, sickly sweet ice cream cake, and pint sized hooligans with eyeballs rolled back in ecstatic delight at the prospect of manic, unbridled carousing with other small humans.

I never know whether to drop my son off or hover at these events, and since I didn’t know the hosting Mom outside of vacant “hello’s!” at daycare drop off, I folded myself awkwardly into a chair on the sidelines of the gym and set to work inspecting my Blackberry, social pariah style.

Another Mom soon plopped down beside me, and I recognized her as the Mother of Oliver, a sweet-natured kid who always has a smile and a hug for my son. She’d been at a previous birthday party with me, and we’d exchanged pleasantries about our careers, lives, hobbies.

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