Welcome, 2014.

We're now 13 days into 2014, and I haven't written a post yet (I don't count the Letter to my Little Bear that was published on the first...I started writing it about two days before that and just didn't get it finished until the first). It's not from a lack of desire...just lack of time and/or energy. The plan is to go back and blog about our visit South for Christmas (and I probably should write about Thanksgiving, too), but it will probably take a few posts; I have about one jillion pictures to sort through. There are a lot of cute Claire pictures. I'm sure you're shocked.

Before the month of January is over, my goal is to post about Thanksgiving, Boswell Christmas (and family stomach virus), Brassart Christmas, visits with friends, a typical Erin airport/flight story, and a few regular ol' Boston posts. That's a minimum of six. Hopefully, I can put on my big girl pants and get it done. It will probably depend on whether or not Bear has actually, officially recovered from the Reduced Staff Syndrome.

That past few times we've returned from visiting with grandparents (and aunts and uncle, for that matter), Claire and I have had days of misery. I think the misery lasts longer each time, too, which very well might do me in before it's all said and done. 

Claire is truly a delightful baby. She is very personable and fun and loves being with people. She's excellent on airplanes and in large social settings. She always gathers a fan base for herself. All things I'm proud of.

The problem is that, eventually, reality comes crashing down on her...and she is simply not equipped to handle it. When we return from southerly visits, reality is that Daddy goes to work/school, and Mommy is the only staff on hand. 

<earth stops rotating on axis>

It boggles her mind that- all of a sudden and without warning- her staff and fan base have all but disappeared, and she is expected to ENTERTAIN HERSELF from time to time. She can't understand that, occasionally, I have laundry to do or Christmas decorations to pack up or a kitchen to tend to and can't be reading books to her as my full-time job (note: I'm extremely proud that reading books is one of her favorite things to do, and by George, I read to her a lot). 

This results in me having to practice tough love while playing music loudly, in an effort to drown out the sobbing taking place on the floor. It's really pitiful; she'll just droop her head and slump her shoulders and wail if I walk away. She pokes her lower lip out and cries actual tears while looking at me with a look that says, "How could you, Mommy? I thought you loved me."

Sigh.

We're both worn out from a full seven days of this trauma. Today, though, it seems that we might have turned the corner. I'm hoping that's the case, because I'm *this close* to losing my mind.

All that to say, I'm going to do my best to get blog posts up. Soon. 

Love to you all.