Everyone Said I’d Miss This…

I had it under control when our first daughter was born because she was a model citizen. She hit every developmental milestone on time, slept and ate on a schedule of military precision, and was generally good humored and cute. There are many photos of her sitting in her bumbo or bouncing in her walker in my office while I kept my business (and her) thriving.

Four and a half years later, when our colicky second daughter arrived, everything fell apart.

There were no more schedules, no more plans, no more nap times, no more schedule blocks in which to work. My household was upside down with a miserable baby who cried constantly, never made her wants obvious, rarely slept for any stretch of time, and had all sorts of diaper explosions. More than once I had to step out onto my quiet porch to resist the urge to shake her.

We saw every specialist. My diagnosis: she just hated being a baby. I had to sell my interest in my business and focus full time on the chaos that had become my homelife, all the while trying not to completely up-end my other daughter’s attention, life and schedule.

Exhausted does not even begin to describe it.

Also, I was perimenopausal—a revelation I’ve recently come to since nobody ever explained that it can start in your late 30s and last a decade. Thanks for nothing, medical establishment.

When Miss Colicky turned 9 months old and was able to roll over and sleep on her stomach, a switch flipped. It got easier, but not easy, since we had to manage occupational therapy, soccer, CCD, and the insane number of things that working parents juggle. My work hours were getting squeezed around everyone and everything else, and traveling for my job required acts of God to pull off.

We narrowly escaped getting childcare from people who turned out to be the nation’s largest collectors of kiddie porn (a story for another day), and I grossly overpaid a babysitter to keep the kids out of my office while I attempted to work from home.

With most of my family living out of town, we often had to travel by plane to visit, which is an expensive dice roll. The fear of being THAT family with the crying kid whose ears don’t like the ascent/descent of the flight taunted me. I timed bottles around take off and landing, and the acrobatics required to change a messy diaper in a plane lavatory should’ve had me medaled as much as Michael Phelps.

Still, my kids were unbearably adorable.

The way they ran to hug me after school, the smell of their hair after a bath, their little hands in mine. The tiny voices and all the questions. The way they were curious about everything in the entire universe. Story time in the rocking chair was my favorite half hour of every day. We loved to peek in and see their serene, sleeping faces in the moonlight. We sang in the bath, in the car, in the kitchen. We rhymed all the time. We cut food into fun shapes. We baked. We clapped for recitals and cheered from the sidelines. We built sled ramps and forts. We wore princess dresses and rainbow eyelashes. It was all fabulous and beautiful and I wouldn’t trade it.

But I don’t miss it.

Is that awful to admit?

I just remember being so overwrought.

So… bone tired.

So, endlessly overwhelmed by a to-do list that was usually two-sided.

Now, my daughters are 20 and 16.

They’re clever. They’re funny. They’re digital natives that make fun of my fat thumbs. They’re open to trying new things, new foods, new places. They pack their own suitcases. They occasionally cook their own food and even sometimes clean up. They forward me memes. We have inside jokes and real conversations about things that matter. They snipe terrible pictures of me and I them, and then we haze each other. They’re my best friends, even when I can’t see their floors for all the clutter.

I absolutely love this part.

But I know it won’t last.

And I know that THIS is the part I’ll miss—not the cute, squishy, innocent baby part that every granny told me I’d miss someday. Maybe that’s the part they miss. Not me.

This is the time…The part where they’re still mine, but also their own. Before they attach themselves permanently to a partner or prioritize the family they create over the family that created them. Before they stake out on their own in life and business and the stress of both land on their shoulders. Before home is a place they go back to, but not where they live anymore.

This, this right here, this is the best part.

I’m trying to hold onto it, but it’s like water in my fist. It’s going to slip away, and as much as I’m trying to stay present, there’s a part of me that pre-mourns losing it.

Parenthood is a long exercise in letting go from the minute they leave your body. It’s a constant inner struggle between holding them close and releasing them into the wild. And the truth is that you really want both: you want to freeze them in stasis while also watching them bloom into whatever they’re meant to be.

I don’t know if I’m doing this right. Then again, do parents ever know if they’re doing anything right? The best we can do is love our way through it and hope they still want to visit.

xo

Grab That’s a Helluva Story– A How-To For Personal Essays

Real lessons, real talk, really useful.