Paloma,
Today you are twenty-two months old.
I didn't want to get out of bed today. I thought that maybe if we just stayed in all day you can't get any older.
I think it started with a pair of shoes you'd outgrown, I can't recall now, but, suddenly, I could see the time slipping through my fingers. You are almost two. You are almost no longer one. You are almost-
There are a few moments of your birthday that I can still recall so vividly. For example, when I came out of the bathroom, from the shower, Ami had arrived and the first thing I saw when I opened the bathroom door was her bag. But it was not her bag, not her usual bag, and so it looked so strange. And serious. Like the EMTs had arrived. It looked like that sort of bag. And it was HUGE. And it was open and there were things in there, and I don't know what it was that I saw, but it all hit me right then: I was having a baby. These were the big guns. She hadn't doubted my contractions. She wasn't second-guessing me. She hadn't left the birth bag at home. Nope. This was really happening.
Another moment was when I was on the floor. I had unrolled a yoga mat and was moaning and rolling around and in so much pain and thinking about how if some nurse came by my hospital room and asked if I wanted drugs I'd say FUCK YES NOW AND THANKS AND WHAT TOOK YOU THIS LONG TO ASK. I was in no condition to say, Why no, but thanks for the offer, I've decided I'd like to go drug-free and experience all this pain in all its magnificence and it's actually stated right there on page 73 of my birth plan.
Nope. I'd have said yes.
But my next thought was, I don't want to shut it off forever. I just want five minutes. I would have killed for five pain-free minutes to regroup. Pause. And then I would have jumped right back in, no problemo.
But you can't have five minutes in labor. You get no minutes. You just keep going.
And so I feel like that applies here. I cannot keep you from growing. I cannot stop time from passing. Soon you will be in school and I will kill for five minutes in the middle of the day with you so we can go on an adventure. I will kill for five minutes of holding you in my lap while you nap and my whole arm goes numb.
I am of the lucky few, these days, who get to stay home with you and spend every waking minute with you and experience you in all your tremendous glory.
Don't doubt for a second that I don't know it.
Happy Twenty-Second Monthday.
Love,
Mama
Today you are twenty-two months old.
I didn't want to get out of bed today. I thought that maybe if we just stayed in all day you can't get any older.
I think it started with a pair of shoes you'd outgrown, I can't recall now, but, suddenly, I could see the time slipping through my fingers. You are almost two. You are almost no longer one. You are almost-
There are a few moments of your birthday that I can still recall so vividly. For example, when I came out of the bathroom, from the shower, Ami had arrived and the first thing I saw when I opened the bathroom door was her bag. But it was not her bag, not her usual bag, and so it looked so strange. And serious. Like the EMTs had arrived. It looked like that sort of bag. And it was HUGE. And it was open and there were things in there, and I don't know what it was that I saw, but it all hit me right then: I was having a baby. These were the big guns. She hadn't doubted my contractions. She wasn't second-guessing me. She hadn't left the birth bag at home. Nope. This was really happening.
Another moment was when I was on the floor. I had unrolled a yoga mat and was moaning and rolling around and in so much pain and thinking about how if some nurse came by my hospital room and asked if I wanted drugs I'd say FUCK YES NOW AND THANKS AND WHAT TOOK YOU THIS LONG TO ASK. I was in no condition to say, Why no, but thanks for the offer, I've decided I'd like to go drug-free and experience all this pain in all its magnificence and it's actually stated right there on page 73 of my birth plan.
Nope. I'd have said yes.
But my next thought was, I don't want to shut it off forever. I just want five minutes. I would have killed for five pain-free minutes to regroup. Pause. And then I would have jumped right back in, no problemo.
But you can't have five minutes in labor. You get no minutes. You just keep going.
And so I feel like that applies here. I cannot keep you from growing. I cannot stop time from passing. Soon you will be in school and I will kill for five minutes in the middle of the day with you so we can go on an adventure. I will kill for five minutes of holding you in my lap while you nap and my whole arm goes numb.
I am of the lucky few, these days, who get to stay home with you and spend every waking minute with you and experience you in all your tremendous glory.
Don't doubt for a second that I don't know it.
Happy Twenty-Second Monthday.
Love,
Mama
She suddenly went from hating everything about the beach to loving it. We couldn't get her out of the water. Even after falling in face first. Twice. Soaking wet and freezing and she wanted more.
Perhaps the best birthday gift ever.
There are days when she climbs into my lap, out of nowhere, and falls asleep in my arms in an instant, no struggle, no forewarning, so easy.
The other days I feel like I'm wrestling a premenstrual bear.
The other days I feel like I'm wrestling a premenstrual bear.
Paloma,
Today you are twenty one months old.
You are a toddler. I suppose you earned that title at nine months when you began walking, but the label on your clothes would say otherwise. You still shop in the "baby" section.
I went out to find some new pants for you yesterday and I brought home two pairs that will fit you for another week. Maybe two. In the store they looked bigger than your current pants. Bigger enough. Babies burn through clothes in three month cycles. But they're not bigger. Not at all.
They're size 18-24 months, and so, apparently, I need to let it go. You are not a baby. You are a walking, talking, eating machine. You speak in sentences. You have opinions. You ask for things, "Yes, please."
You pretend to make cow soup in the bath with a cup and a bubble wand. We add imaginary salt and a dash or two of frog or rubber ducky, tasting as we go.
You walk through the house with your arms straight out, droning, "M U M M Y." Some days you call me Mummy and I've made the mistake of responding. You also call me MOM. As in MOM. O, MOM. MOM! Etcetera.
You learn new words and shout them out at random for the remainder of the day. CABLE CAR! SHARKS GAME! SUSHI! And so on.
This month we night-weaned, meaning you get no more milk at night. It was the easiest thing we've ever done. So easy, I'm afraid to put it in writing, but there it is: NIGHT WEANED.
For a long time - maybe month nine to now - you've been a hybrid baby-toddler. A 'tween of sorts. A babbler? A tobby? But no more. I miss the baby, but I relish the toddler.
You are grande.
Happy Twenty First Monthday.
Love,
Mama
Today you are twenty one months old.
You are a toddler. I suppose you earned that title at nine months when you began walking, but the label on your clothes would say otherwise. You still shop in the "baby" section.
I went out to find some new pants for you yesterday and I brought home two pairs that will fit you for another week. Maybe two. In the store they looked bigger than your current pants. Bigger enough. Babies burn through clothes in three month cycles. But they're not bigger. Not at all.
They're size 18-24 months, and so, apparently, I need to let it go. You are not a baby. You are a walking, talking, eating machine. You speak in sentences. You have opinions. You ask for things, "Yes, please."
You pretend to make cow soup in the bath with a cup and a bubble wand. We add imaginary salt and a dash or two of frog or rubber ducky, tasting as we go.
You walk through the house with your arms straight out, droning, "M U M M Y." Some days you call me Mummy and I've made the mistake of responding. You also call me MOM. As in MOM. O, MOM. MOM! Etcetera.
You learn new words and shout them out at random for the remainder of the day. CABLE CAR! SHARKS GAME! SUSHI! And so on.
This month we night-weaned, meaning you get no more milk at night. It was the easiest thing we've ever done. So easy, I'm afraid to put it in writing, but there it is: NIGHT WEANED.
For a long time - maybe month nine to now - you've been a hybrid baby-toddler. A 'tween of sorts. A babbler? A tobby? But no more. I miss the baby, but I relish the toddler.
You are grande.
Happy Twenty First Monthday.
Love,
Mama
