Last night I went to say good night to my not so terribly
little daughter. I curled up next to
her, wrapped my arms around her, and begged her to close her eyes and go to
sleep. I wanted to drink her in and, for
once, have her fall asleep next to me. She’s
never been able to do that. Countless
times, she’s fallen asleep in my arms, back when she was my nursling. But even then, I had to get her in bed before
she’d been out too long because Edie was not able to stay asleep anywhere but
in her own bed. Once, somewhere around
her second birthday after she’d moved from a crib into a twin sized bed, I
snuggled up with her hoping that with this new found space, maybe now we could
doze off together. But after a few
minutes, she patted my cheek and said “Mama, go see Daddy.” I was able to laugh then and be on my way,
but last night, I was trying to hold time still and keep her at two for as long
as I could. But, it’s not a child’s job
to soothe her parent, and I managed to leave my not-at-all-sleeping kid before
she wondered what I was up to.
Because she would wonder, before long. Nothing distresses her more than seeing me in
distress. The handful of times I’ve
banged my head or stubbed my toe with such force I wasn’t able to laugh it off,
she’s oftentimes fallen at my feet, trembling, waiting for me to smile. These days if she thinks I’ve hurt myself,
she jogs over chanting, “It’s ok. It’s ok, mom. It’s ok.” Half reassurance,
half question. When it’s physical pain,
I am quick to let her know that it is
ok, but I have a harder time when what’s wrong is day three of a grinding
headache caused by her screaming brother and exacerbated by exhaustion. I don’t want to shield her from all negative
emotions, but I do want her to trust that her mom, in the end, is always
ok. Usually this takes the form of an
explanatory talk once cooler heads can prevail.
My sensitive girl. I
know that I’m toughest on my Edie, pushing her behave, speaking to her like an
adult, pressing her to explain her thoughts and feelings, and encouraging her
to play on her own. But this does not
mean that she does not both break and light up my heart, nor is my toughness
itself always the right call. Just a few
weeks ago I saw her dancing around near a group of her friends, looking
hesitant and wide-eyed. I stepped closer
and heard a classmate whom I know Edie adores say “This is only for big kids.
You can’t sit down.” And I may have
wanted to let her work this out, but instead I said flatly in my best Tony
Soprano-esque low voice, “She’s big enough.
Go ahead and sit down, honey.” Best
believe that no one argued with me.
When Edie woke up today, I pulled her into bed with me. Again, looking to hang on. I whispered “happy birthday” and held her
tight. But Eli woke up, and the school
day was approaching, so I had to chase her- and drag myself - out of that warm
bed and get started on this day that would tick by, just like all the rest. I’d made her a birthday present: a “this is
your life” style book that chronicled the highlights of her first thirty-six
months. It crushed me to make, but I
knew she’d love it, since she had been asking all kinds of questions about her
life since her brother was born. Edie
has wanted to know about her birth story, where she’s lived, and what she’s
done. So this was my way of telling
her. I couldn’t wait for this evening to
give it to her, so I brought it out before breakfast. She climbed in my lap and I read it. Half way through, I looked down at her face
and saw she was getting really overwhelmed.
I said, “hey, what’s up.” Then
the tears began to fall. Quiet sobbing,
not in pain or anger. I asked her what
was wrong – a silly reflex, considering I don’t think adults are typically
capable of fully grasping the “what” in that question during the heat of the
moment. She mumbled something about a
beloved water bottle that she had lost and missed. I held her tight and promised I’d get her a
new one. I asked if she wanted me to
keep reading and she nodded fervently.
So I did. And then it was over,
too.
In a flash, she was out the door, armed with her new book
and a lunch filled with her favorite things, and her Dad balancing two giant
containers of minicupcakes for her class to have today. Tonight, we are getting a sitter for two
hours to come and watch baby brother so Edie can have a dinner of undivided
parental attention. And I am so grateful
that for the moment, that is still in the future.
I’m not even really a baby person. I like my own babies (though they confuse and
frustrate me to no end), and I have an appreciation for the babies of family
and friends. But I’ve never had baby
fever. I’m a kid person, and my Edie is
truly a kid now. It is fun and only
getting better. I joke that my kids took
my youth and beauty. I mean, I joke, but
it’s true. But they take so much more
than that. They take your armor, expose
you to the truth that you control nothing.
And that has been a bitter pill for me to swallow. That it all goes by so fast is a cliché, no doubt. But what else is there to say? Nothing this hard, this magical, this
grueling, this gorgeous could do anything but pass quickly, or else no one
could bear it.
Happy Birthday, Edie! If I had it to do over, I think I
would. I don’t know that I could do
better, but I can’t lie and say I wouldn’t want to try. I love you so much it hurts, but I’d never
want to go a moment without it.
