Lately I've found myself in a bit of a muddle about the kids and their lack of babyness. They are not babies anymore, even the three and a half year old screamer. They are little children, and my job is a different one. Before, it was diapers and breastfeeding and pumping and bottles and diapers and pureed food and wiping faces and diapers and carrying and schlepping and rocking and soothing and diapers and general exhaustion. Now it's talking and cajoling and explaining and reprimanding and hurrying along and watching, watching, watching, listening listening listening. I understand why people say it's harder now; it's more complicated for sure, more complex and nuanced. Trying to explain why Frances can't have a no-clothes party takes a bit more wherewithal than simply keeping the baby from falling down the stairs.
It occurred to me recently that instead of enjoying what they now are I've been wishing for what they were, and that's a silly thing to do. Because who they are now is a really wonderful joyful place to be. For example, I give you the picture of the day:
I've had the baby itch. I assume it's born of nothing more than the fact that mine aren't babies any longer. Everyone who counts is 99% certain that there will be no more pregnancies in our house, so my internal response to the baby itch has been to lament the loss of the babyness of my present kids.
Maybe I should get a lap dog.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment