Time to put on the big-girl pants

As a mother, the approaching end of the last vestiges of my daughter’s babyhood is a strange time. I see the swell and glow of pride as she drinks from a big-girl cup for a whole meal and I literally want to jump up and down with her. I know that feeling. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt it but I want her to enjoy every moment of that growing realization: I can!

I do look forward to even a few more moments to myself as we say good-bye to the last pacifier — no more moments of panic searching under car seats when we realize “passy” is missing. No more sinking dread if I happen to forget one on a trip. No more having one stashed in every purse and car compartment and spares at grandma’s house to be sure we can avoid trauma that brings life to a full stop until “passy” is found.

But, as she drifted off to sleep Saturday night whimpering only once for her beloved baby-cork, I went from a small sigh of relief to all-out sobbing.

I know, it’s the age-old conundrum. If you love something you must hold it gently or you risk crushing it, but still you must hold it or it may fly away.

This is motherhood, in a nutshell. And when children are young, parents are very much in the phase of more holding than letting go — probably something to do with our ancestors’ babies being carried off by wolves if they were left alone too long.

But, I know it’s a mistake to think letting go hasn’t been a part of this mothering gig already. The whole process begins with the child being physically separated from the mother, and as far as I can tell it’s all a process of incremental separation from there until she decides to go start her own life somewhere else or I kick her out (with love) and tell her she’s welcome back for temporary stays any time.

I know that the only thing standing between Lyla and the end of all signs of babyhood is learning to potty in the big-girl potty.

I wish I could say my only reaction is joy. It’s not. Part of me is heartbroken.

She is very likely the only baby I will ever have. There are so many things I would do completely differently if I had it to do over again, but that’s just my perfectionism talking.

Having absolutely nothing to do with my mothering skills, my daughter is pure light and joy. She wasn’t planned. She wasn’t well-timed. She wasn’t even supposed to be as healthy as she was. She is perfect.

She has opened a part of my heart I forgot existed and she won’t let it close, even when life hurts me so much I sometimes want to shut it off. She challenges me physically and emotionally, but not nearly as much as she blesses me and brings me joy.

I had a theory about parenting before she was born, that as long as you love with your whole being and don’t resist the way a child tugs at your soul to be vulnerable, you’ll do OK as a parent.

I still have that theory, but I extend myself quite a bit of grace in its application. Some days, I realize the vulnerability thing is secondary to, say, avoiding throwing myself on the floor and beating it with my fists, so I settle for keeping her alive and safe on those days. 

My sister gave me great advice early on that has helped me with the letting go.

“Don’t worry about trying to figure out who Lyla will need you to be at every point along the way,” she told me, “you only have to be the mommy of the kid she is right now. And the great thing about kids is you don’t have to wonder what they need or want, they’re very good at showing you.” She was so right.

I think I have a lot of regret about the things I messed up along the way in the baby years, but Lyla doesn’t remember that stuff. Come to think of it, it probably didn’t matter to her at the time.

And now, she’s asking me to let it all go.

The other morning I went into her room and greeted her as I have every morning of her life with “Good morning my sweet baby, how did you sleep?” She quickly and firmly replied with a furrowed brow, “Mommy, I not a baby.”

Oh, heart! She’s right. I’m not the mommy of a baby anymore. I am suddenly the mommy of a little girl.

“Well,” I told her “you’ll always be my baby.”

She resisted, “No, mommy, I not a baby.”

“OK. How ‘bout I call you my sweet girl?”

“Yes, OK mommy. I need some breakfast.”

Telling me what she needs, in so many ways. That’s my girl. Always has been. Always will be. And she needs me to let go of the baby phase and keep her fueled for the adventures of childhood. To put on my big-girl pants and step with her into the next exciting phase.

I can! And I will.

But I reserve the right to cry about it when we no longer need diapers and I fully expect to need copious amounts of chocolate and hugs on that day.

As published in the Marion County Record, February 23, 2011

Cleanliness is next to gifty-ness

Friday morning got off to a rocky start. For some reason, I thought it was Saturday. In my house this would mean it was my day to keep sleeping even after I heard breakfast sounds in the kitchen.

It wasn’t until my husband started to leave the house dressed for work that I realized my error.

I know it sounds childish but the disappointment I felt in that moment put me in a deep funk I had trouble shaking.

The morning went on, Lyla kept busy with her cereal and trains, and I pulled the blanket over my head in a bit of a pout.

I felt a crushing disappointment that was more than a simple case of day confusion deserved.

I tried to explain to my toddler why I wasn’t on the floor in the thick of things as usual.

“Lyla, I think I’m in a bad mood this morning. Sorry.”

“Yes, Mommy, I know it.” She sounded so grown up and looked like she was thinking hard about the information. Then her face lit up and she looked at me.

“It’s OK. I help you!” she exclaimed. She rushed over to where I was sitting and began to pick up the toys she’d dumped all over the couch, singing her cleanup song.

It made me wonder, what have I modeled for her that makes her think cleaning will put me in a better mood? Is that really something I want her to conclude about life? That the key to happiness is a tidy living room?

I was mulling all this as Friday continued to unravel. Then Saturday’s grocery trip turned into a daylong fiasco. Sunday began with a hefty dose of frustration as a series of plans with friends fell through and I saw the start of a new work week approaching without any bright spots from the weekend.

I’m ashamed to say it but I lost it. When Lyla went down for a nap I just started weeping and railing and feeling really sorry for myself.

Then something miraculous happened: I went into my bedroom to sulk and couldn’t get to the bed for all the laundry that needed to be put away. So I did it. Right that second. I slammed some drawers along the way but it got done.

With the baskets gone I noticed how much the floor needed to be mopped. So I did that. And mopped out into the living room where toys were hiding under tables and carpeting pathways around the room. So I started to put them away and decided to do a really thorough job of it; I made labels for all our toy bins with pictures of what’s inside so Lyla can learn to do it herself. I’ve been meaning to do that for months.

As I printed the labels and tied them to her bins with yarn in her favorite color, I thought about the toys that would go in each container. I thought about how much joy my little girl gets when she plays with them, how she engages with each item in a way that is teasing out bits and pieces of her little personality and I get to witness that.

Usually when I clean, I’ll admit it’s not with a heart of joy. My sister and I joke about the phenomenon of being an “angry cleaner.” By which we mean we often find ourselves getting angrier as we clean, as though it’s some sort of slight to us.

We joke about it because we both realize this isn’t true. Things get dirty. That’s life.

The time and effort I put into cleaning is actually some of the most rewarding time and effort I spend. Whatever I put into a household chore is exactly what I get out of it. With each swipe I make of the mop across the floor, more dirt is lifted. Not many things in life come with such a guarantee.

The toy bin labels kicked off what has been a days-long streak of organization and cleaning in my house.

I like a clean and tidy house as much as any normal person but the past few days have been more like a life overhaul.

Some of the things I’ve done have literally been on my list for more than a year. They have rubbed against my soul like sandpaper every day in some cases, and yet I felt that somehow stopping to do them was accepting some final insult.

As I have attended to each task I have felt light penetrating some bitter and dark corners of my soul. I am taking care of the things that care for me and my family. Each motion has a tangible effect and feels like a gift I am giving, both to my family and to myself.

Not a bad lesson for a toddler to learn. Not a bad one for a mommy either.

As published in the Marion County Record, February 9, 2011

The stuff of dreams

When I was a little girl, my dad used to take me on special outings, just him and me, to a place he didn’t take my mom or my sister. I remember feeling so special that these outings were just for us, and that he had picked me to help him with whatever he was working on — my dad took me to the hardware store.

I can’t have been very old when the tradition started. While cleaning out the basement at my parents’ house I found I card I made for dad at the age of 5 that said “Happy Father’s Day! Thanks for taking me to the hardware store.”

My memories of the trips to the store are quite vague, but the feeling of excitement I got as we approached the sliding glass doors is something that still flutters within me when I go in a hardware store.

I can remember standing in the aisle where the nails and screws were kept in bright plastic bulk bins and staring for what felt like hours, trying to imagine what kinds of projects people would be doing that would demand each particular kind of nail or screw or bolt. Of course the things I imagined were a great deal more elaborate than reality, but I think that’s what I liked about it. In those rows and rows of bins were the raw materials of infinite possibilities.

When we took Lyla on a trip to the hardware store recently, I was giddy as we drove, remembering how much I loved those trips with my dad.

We strapped her in the cart and made a mad dash for the things we absolutely had to get done, hoping her patience would hold out. It was stressful. It was busy. It was frustrating. Lyla was bored and tired and felt like she wasn’t getting near enough attention.

So I asked her to help. I gave her a special item to look for and held her hand and we walked along the aisles together. Suddenly this place we were in was not a torture chamber, it was a place of wonder.

She pointed to and exclaimed the name of literally every color we saw as though she had never imagined there could be that many shades of green in one place — and maybe she hadn’t.

At the entrance to every aisle she pointed and gasped as though she’d miraculously found the one I was looking for, the Shangri La of hardware —“It’s this one, Mommy!” she cried.

It took us a good 15 minutes to cross maybe 50 feet of floor. But it made me slow down and see all that she was seeing. To her, every aisle potentially held exactly what we needed. Having a specific part to play in the project we were undertaking transformed her surroundings to a world of possibilities.

That’s why you go to a hardware store, right? Anything you can think up that you want to build to make life better or fix a problem, you start at the hardware store. To me, as a kid, it was an actual store you could go to and literally find the things that dreams are made of.

I think that’s still why I get excited, particularly when I smell those familiar smells at the doorway: the fresh-cut lumber being sized just right, the paint being mixed to somebody’s ideal shade, the plants in the greenhouse that will soon fill somebody’s perfectly-planned garden or window box. All of it is on its way to taking the shape of somebody’s dream.

As published in the Marion County Record, February 2, 2011