Today our nanny was “late.” She was at our house about ten minutes later than normal, which still left me with plenty of time to get to work. You know what I did in those extra minutes? I held my daughter and read my son a book. Then my son read the book to me. It was simple. It was extraordinary.
Sometimes being a few minutes behind your self-imposed schedule can be the best part of your day. My kids are teaching me that.
I realized it’s been a month since I wrote down any thoughts. So much has changed. Louise smiles all the time, especially when you play with her legs and sing her song. (“Hello Louise” to the tune of “Come On Eileen.” If you were wondering.) Noah has suddenly acquired a firmer grasp of the English language and spoke a full sentence with a clause and subject verb agreement this morning. (“When momma gets home, I’ll take off her helmet.” In case you were curious.) I went back to work and found out that my amazing coworkers had moved me into an office with a window. I get to use my adult brain and do research and finish up the work on a grant and have odd conversations. Then I get to be home by 3:30 and play trains and feed Louise and make dinner. I’m tired, but happy. It’s a good life.
I also made a pumping sign for my office door that I’m inordinately proud of. If you happen to like it and be in need of one, feel free to use it.
Here is is as a PDF: pumping sign
I had forgotten.
It’s true that the small things that happen everyday that I wanted to believe I would always remember with clarity fade. They get replaced with the new small things that I want to hold onto.
I had forgotten the sheer joy that filled my heart when my baby cooed at me for the first time. I forgot until yesterday when my baby looked into my eyes and told me all about it. I sat on the couch and talked to her for minutes. She smiled and told me thoughts and waited for me to keep the conversation going. In those moments I got another glimpse at the person she is becoming. At the way her mind works and the personality rising to the surface. It made me tear up out of happiness.
I am glad to have the opportunity to remember.
My toddler is a helper. Except he can’t say the word “help.” It comes out “heyelp!” For instance, When he hears the dishwasher open, he yells, “I heyelp!” and jumps right in. It has taken some perspective adjusting, but I find myself changing my rote chore moves to accommodate my helper. After years of figuring out the most efficient ways to do tasks, I’m now going in the reverse direction. Having a two year old follow you around with a dust pan and open the trash can for you is not the quickest way to sweep. Nor is having him hand you silverware one piece at a time. Neither is letting him throw individual pieces of clothing into the washing machine or giving him an empty spray bottle and a rag so he can dust too.
I realized that right now is the time to embrace the extra two minutes a task takes because I’m doing it with him. And the truth is that there is no hurry. He wants to be just like momma and dada, and these days of having a two year old will be briefer than I want to admit. Do I really care if it takes extra time to plant bulbs or rake the yard? For the first time in my life, I can honestly say no.
Sometimes I feel it rising up in me like a bubble, one that I try to swallow down with a deep breath and a smile. But that does not always work. Especially when lunch and milk end up on the floor after an attempt to make a break down the driveway after unprompted yelling in the car. Especially when one more ignored request goes by.
In that moment, I feel myself be the parent I don’t want to be and before I get down a deep breath, I raise my voice and lose my cool. Add in some sleep deprivation, and it’s the perfect conditions for a not proud parenting moment.
And why? To get the blocks put away? For something that really, truly does not matter?
But today is a new day, which luckily for me means a clean state, two happy kids and some perspective.
I was struck this morning by the abundance of simple joys that have filled the past week.
Louise fell asleep on my chest, perfectly centered with her bottom fitting in the crook of my arm. Her quick breathing was the foil of my heartbeat.
Noah asked to hold Louise while we read books to her. He filled in the “beeps” and periodically kissed the top of her head.
Greg settled into the big comfy chair and propped Louise up on his knees so they could make faces at each other.
Louise woke up when she heard Noah telling her hi and trying to reach her through the bars of the crib.
Noah pretended that his round blocks were a horn [like Curious George] and played us a toddler rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.
My mom made us dinner and invited the entire family. Noah watched my mom walk back to the car in the rain to get a chair and said “come back please.” He also ran laps around the dinner table. Everyone had a chance to hold Louise, have a drink and enjoy each other’s company.
Greg and I went on a lunch date while Noah was at school and Louise sat next to the table. After being cooped up in the house all week, bi bim bop had never tasted so good.
These are not profound things, but they are profoundly special to me.
I woke up at 3AM and realized Louise had picked a birthday. A mere, but intense and painful and hectic, five hours later, she was in my arms.
My prayers have lately revolved around labor and delivery; both that I could handle the pain and that she would be healthy. Momentary discomforts and screamed expletives aside, I can handle a lot for the sake of her. The prayers were that I would remember it.
And now she’s here, and she is perfect. Twenty inches and eight pounds four ounces of her beautiful self. She knew me the moment the nurse put her on my chest and she heard my voice.
The first thing we did together? Rest. For a moment with her heart beating against mine, I whispered that she is my strong, brave, beautiful girl. And that she is perfect.
Happy birthday, Louise. We are so happy you are here.
I want to see your face and kiss your cheek. I want to run a finger along the edge of your foot and watch you spread your toes. I am ready to see you make your dad melt and for your big brother meet you for the first time. Come on out, kid. Your family is waiting.
I’m beginning the draft of this post on February 22 with the hope that I will not be pregnant much longer. My girl is full term, and I would really like to bring her into this world sooner rather than later. I’m occupying some of my waiting time with reading, but mostly I spend spare moments sleeping. I wish I could bank these naps, but instead I’ll settle for getting them where I can. [UPDATE: Nope, it’s Leap Day, and I’m still pregnant. So very pregnant.]
Dear Blue Bear,
I feel like the time has come to get some things out in the open. You came to our house two years ago, the same week as your constant companion. His aunts sent you to him at the same time they sent flowers to me. I’d like to say it was love at first sight, but newborn eyes aren’t that keen. You spent a lot of that first year floating around the house–in and out of the toy box, occasionally making the trip to your boy’s grandparents’ house.
At some point during the last year, that erratic orbit became magnetic. One day, he saw you and decided that you were the one he needed. From that day on, you have never been very far apart. You sleep together and go on adventures. You have a “special” seat on top of the trashcan where you wait for him when he plays outside. He wants you to wear a hat and socks when it’s cold, and he reads you his favorite books. In fact, some of his most loved stories are the ones where the main character has a companion like you, books like Corduroy and Me…Jane.
The first thing I want to clear up is that I’m sorry about your name. I thought that calling you “Blue Bear” would give him a chance to name you himself. Unfortunately, he just heard “Blue” and ran with it. You also smell. I know that it is unavoidable since you get so much love each day. The reality that a lot of that love includes being shoved in a toddler mouth is just gross. I do try to bathe you whenever laundry times out around nap time because we both know the sadness that would ensue if you couldn’t sleep with him. Unfortunately, that happens less often then it should. Again, sorry.
I also want to say thank you. You have given me a window into my boy’s feelings that I didn’t anticipate. He won’t always tell me when he is sad or tired, but he never hesitates when I ask him, “Is Blue sad?” You also give him comfort when I am not there to kiss his bruised knee or sing him a lullaby when he has a bad dream. You are the piece of home that he can take with him wherever he goes.
I know that he is branching out to other stuffed companions these days–including the equally poorly named Brown Bear and Cat–but he keeps coming back to you. You’re his friend, and I’m glad he has you to take care of.
Love,
His mom
Caroline Mitchell Carrico