I don't know how this happened. She was born. I blinked. And now she's two.
She demands Cheerios for lunch and eats them nude in her "Freya chair." Naked Toddler Brunch: it's the new lunch. When she drops something, she says "oopsidaisy" and when she's startled by something, she says "cheese cries!" (Jesus Christ.)
She demands Cheerios for lunch and eats them nude in her "Freya chair." Naked Toddler Brunch: it's the new lunch. When she drops something, she says "oopsidaisy" and when she's startled by something, she says "cheese cries!" (Jesus Christ.)
She mimics her parents ruthlessly and without guile, to devastating comic effect.
The other morning, she toddled into our bedroom with a box of tampons, yelling "Daddy, biscuits!" (We were perplexed until we realized the yellow tampon outer paper vaguely resembles Belvita biscuit wrappers.)
The other morning, she toddled into our bedroom with a box of tampons, yelling "Daddy, biscuits!" (We were perplexed until we realized the yellow tampon outer paper vaguely resembles Belvita biscuit wrappers.)
She has a very faint, very fine scar running from the corner of her right eye down her cheek from running (oh, how she loves to run!) into a metal sign and, each time I see it, I think I might never forgive myself for that moment of slow reflex. It fades during the day, but reddens in the bath or when she cries. I guess it will always be there -- a bell-weather for her mood. Friends and lovers, down the road, may thank me for it...
A friend of mine, pregnant with her first baby, isn't having an easy time of it. "It's sooooo slow and I'm sooooo uncomfortable. I can't wait until this baby arrives."
I was the same. Even if I had a relatively easy pregnancy, the anticipation was too much to bear. I just. wanted. it. to. happen. already. Past my official date at 40+1 week, I recall reading an article in which a mother -- pregnant with her third child -- expressed sadness that these final weeks would be the last time her baby would be truly safe inside. "Crazy!" I thought at the time. "Don't you want to meet this kid?!"
But I get it now.
The slowest nine months of your life, followed by the fastest 24 months (and counting.) It sounds so facile, but the time flies. It also doesn't escape me that my success as a parent ultimately lies in being the agent of my own obsolescence -- to get her to a point where she may want me around, but doesn't need me there.
That's what that wise third-time-mother realized that this first-time-freaked-out-nursery-paint-color-obsessed-almost-mother couldn't: the journey to independence starts the second they leave utero (safe, albeit increasingly uncomfortable) and become aware that there's a big, bold world outside. A slow, but inexorable shuffle apart...it's not sad, but it is bittersweet.
My message to you at two years of age, baby girl, is simply this: I will be your safe place for as long and whenever you need one. And one day, you'll be the safe place for a friend, a child, a partner...and you'll realize that it is truly one of life's great privileges.
In the meantime, we have roads to travel. Helping you understand the difference between a box of tampons and biscuits, for example. Teaching you that the intersection of face and metal sign should be avoided -- and how to avoid it (look in front of you, not behind, when running.) Sensibilizing you to the nuances of when and when not to use "Jesus Christ," ie: okay-ish at home, but not in front of nuns...
My mother always said she didn't raise me to keep me next to her. I will do the same for you.
But for now, I really really really like having you next to me...