It’s kind of like this: you start out as a parent with the most precious, delicate, special baby in the world. Time passes. The baby is dropped—and still okay, or dirty—and still okay, or bites someone or is bitten—and still okay. For most parents and children, this is kind of the pattern. At some point, the child seems much less precious and delicate and special—I mean, still all those things, sure—but also you realize you are increasingly working to have your child—perhaps now taller than you—find his or her way into the big, indelicate world. And you want to help that same precious, fragile, delicate, special child become durable, capable and ding-proof. It is rather a complete turnaround.
You do practice along the way. The toddler falls and you teach yourself to make a grand gesture and a breathy, happy, “You’re okay!” You don’t rush each and every time to scoop your child up and save him or her from the disastrous fall, because falling wasn’t a big deal, even if your stomach dropped precipitously for a moment.
Why am I bringing all this up? It’s my way to saying that I’m sitting with the evolution and not wishing for a reversal of time (please, no) but wondering what I might have done better and how to get from here to… somewhere and just recovering from my stomach falling precipitously a few times too many recently.
I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one to feel this way sometimes. After dropping Remy’s pal off at his house yesterday before supper, I dashed into town to pick up some soup and some Goberry. I ran into a friend, who also has teens. We commiserated. I felt better. Note to anyone with young children: be real about your struggles with your peers. You aren’t the only one at sea. Others flailing in the water will rescue you each and every time.
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Noting the sweet always saves you, too.
Listening to two third grade boys discuss pop music is just about the most amusing thing you may ever hear. And watching preschoolers become really loving pals (and dance) is ever so sweet, heart-bursting material. And as much as any parent cannot abide by the sleep lost, to capture a baby gazing adoringly toward the light of his life (“mama!”) is also so very, very tender it’s almost worth the sleep lost and maybe even worth it.
Or hearing a newly-minted four year-old describe the game she plays with Jonah “Electric Boy,” Sammy “Lava Gu-wurl” and herself, “Max” pretty much leaves you smiling.
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Writing this on the evening of day nine of the one-on-four parenting stint, Saskia is working on her (nonworking) laptop and I’m on mine—side by side in bed. She was in her room “reading” but got scared. I am too tired to change anything. It is past her bedtime and before mine but I am waiting to check in with the teen and waiting for the third grader to come upstairs. Nine days down, I think I’m cooked. And have lost any semblance of being able to set reasonable limits. She’s a good typist.
