My firstborn baby just turned a year old. It’s mind boggling to think an entire year has passed since the doctor urged me to open my eyes during what would be the last push so I could meet my daughter.
My daughter – it still sounds weird coming out of my mouth, almost like I’m an imposter pretending to possess something that isn’t really mine. After all, she is the baby my husband and I spent nearly three years trying to conceive.
Looking at her can feel surreal at times, like I’ve daydreamed the last 12 months, and the fact that she’s really here and growing like a weed is all make believe. I can’t get over how fast time passes. That’s parenthood, everyone tells us. But I struggle on a daily basis with why I can’t seem to stop thinking about the next thing instead of enjoying the moment.
I’m under no illusions that this is a revolutionary thought, and that’s part of the problem. I can’t seem to find a solution. (This is coming from someone who is really good at scouring the Internet and voraciously reading everything even remotely having to do with kids.) Maybe there’s a mommy blog out there, in which someone in their infinite mothering wisdom tells me how to stop planning in order to just play.
Instead I always stumble on the impeccable ones that tell me how to do the exact opposite…how to cook, craft, plan, organize, and use essential oils to make my home perfect. I already have an entire drawer full of lavender and eucalyptus everything.
I think a bit of backstory might help. I babysat extensively throughout my high school and college years. While my friends were running off to the mall or hanging out with each other and bonding over crushes and glitter eye shadows, I babysat two kids who lived down the street. I happily sat on the floor with them for hours playing Legos, walked them endlessly around the block, and focused entirely on their happiness and well-being. I was in awe of their childlike joy and ability to make a good time out of a pile of leaves in the backyard or puddles on the sidewalk. It was fantastic.
I haven’t felt like that once with my own baby, and that’s a problem.
So, why don’t I experience that same joy now that I’m the parent, and the baby is mine? Is it simply because I was basically a kid back then, too? That’s the closest thing to an explanation I have. I was naïve to the troubles and responsibilities of life, because my parents were still shouldering the bulk of life’s stresses for me at that point. Sure, I made some cash, but the mortgage, utilities, and gas was paid for. I wasn’t distracted by thoughts of what dinner would be, because my mom had it waiting for me when I got home each night. I want my baby to grow up thinking that Mommy loved playing and didn’t rush everything.
Take, for example, last night. Emma was happily playing with leftover pasta remnants from the dinner she’d semi-eaten. Through her teething and fussiness, she’d managed to get a few pieces down, and then began using her index finger to drag leftover linguine scraps around the tray of her high chair. She was obviously fascinated with this activity, and happily emitting random giggles. Looking back, it was absolutely adorable.
At the time, I was impatient and frustrated, thinking only about how it was already after 7 p.m., and I still had to bathe her, change her, and get her to bed. But, so what? I should have just laughed and played along.
I know I can’t completely change my stripes at this point in life. My desire to please people and be efficient is too deeply ingrained in who I am, but I can learn new tricks. I plan to focus on the following three ideas moving forward, because they’re meaningful enough to force me to ignore what’s next till it actually needs to happen.
