Lunchdate

Dear Baby Girl, I struggle to write this without becoming That Parent. You know, the one that prattles on and on about her remarkable kid. like the kid is a quilted apron smock crafted from men's ties. Ahh, look how brilliant! I made her myself!

But the honest truth is that Daddy and I do think you are remarkable, that you are an evolving masterpiece with uneven bangs.

Thank you for inviting us for lunch at PreK this week, and for setting the table off to the side with the vase and the flowers and the napkins with rings. Thank you for pointing out The Listening Station in your classroom where you can hear the story of How I Became a Pirate. Thank you for eating your lunch and giggling and waiting for clean-up inspection by your teacher. Thank you for this peek into your little universe of preschool discovery.

This week I got to see you in a new environment, and what I saw was powerful. Baby Girl, you have confidence. You move about your classroom with poise and a certain level of comfort, trusting that you will do well and be treated well because you are good at all this, because you treat others well. I wish I could bottle all of that up, seal it with wax and preserve it, and then dole it out in the doses that you will need throughout your life.

But somehow I know that you are going to be fine. I have to quell all the anxious voices that argue otherwise. You are going to be fine.

When I tucked you in today, there on your cot in the PreK classroom, all snuggled with your Curious George, you were my baby for just a few fleeting moments. I can't bottle those moments either, even though I so desperately want to, because I, too, will need them in doses throughout my life. All I can do is be thankful for this opportunity. I know that you got a special tag on your cubby because it was your week to have lunch guests, but Daddy and I are truly the VIPs.

Love, Mama

Joy-filled Season

There is no denying that this has been one of the most joyful seasons in my parenting life. The fact that this has also been a season in which I have spent the least amount of time with my children is no coincidence. Make no mistake, I love spending time with my children, and I do spend plenty with them, despite this new regimen of classes and office hours and sprints back and forth to Mac Labs at 11 p.m. to set up technologies that will just make a liar out of me. But let me be honest: my children are smiling more and my Baby Girl has run through the Creation story in skit form and my Little Man has started spouting vocab words like woah, and I have had very little to do with all of this. Oh sure, I hired the outsourced care. I scoped out the school. I earn the scrilla that writes the checks. But I am very much the mama who rides in like a hero at the end of the day to hear all about the day's playground drama and what kind of cement mixer passed by our house. My capacity has been reduced. I am more than a freelancer, but less than a full-timer if we're really counting direct service hours in parentland. Of course my children are always on my mind, they are inextricably linked to my heavy heart. I enjoy their company more than I remember enjoying it and I attribute it to all the support I have right now in helping them to explore the world.

I am generally okay with it. The guilt does come in waves and sometimes, because I am in the South where mothers of small children with careers seem to be an anomaly, I feel sucked in and spit back out to shore by it all. I stand over my sleeping children, warm little pajama-clad marsupials breathing in all the peaceful molecules in our home and breathing out all the yawps of glee of the past day, and I think, Was I there enough for you today? Did I give you enough hugs and peanut butter today? Will you remember this day ten years from now as a day in which we put away the silverware together and talked about hot air balloons, or will you recall how I got all sorts of bent out of shape because you kept interrupting me reading a Mercer Mayer classic and FOR THE LOVE OF PEDRO CAN YOU PLEASE STOP SNARFING ON YOUR BROTHER'S SOCKS.

All of this enJOYment of my children comes in contrast, though. Had I not the privileged opportunity to stay home with them for months and sometimes whole years, I am not sure I would feel this way. Grateful doesn't even come close to expressing the hearty thanks I have to my husband for working all of those insane jobs (with the insane) to provide that opportunity for me, for us. The days of placating newborns through the witching hour, of wrangling toddlers who boycotted nap are a part of my past career, but the skills are transferable to my current position and the memories of the sweetness and the struggle inform all that I do now, all that I am now: Wife, mother, professor, hapless student of this joy-filled mess.

***

outdoor photo credits to Lovey Loverpants

Think Fast

You know that moment as a child when you unwittingly ask the hot button question and your elder is clearly reaching for something sage but all she can offer you is some totally impotent answer that really leaves you still wanting to know more? Like my neighbor friend growing up. She saw her mother grabbing something out of a Kotex package on top of the toilet and she asked what was that curiously soft little envelope she was tucking into her handbag? Her mother quickly responded, "Those are for mothers." And then it was all crystal clear.

Once you awaken to the fact that you were duped, once you firmly lift that veil of wool from where it was shielding your eyes, you resolve: That will never be me. When I'm a parent? I'MA DO ONE BETTAH.

And then your Baby Girl watches as you dig through your handbag and notices that thin capsule-shaped package that is kinda the size of a candy bar? And maybe she has seen it before and yet she's not sure so she reaches in and grabs it while you are sitting in church trying to write out your offering check and she wants to know what's inside of this, mommy, and you try and keep this scene on the DL by nipping it in the bud once and for all. So you say, "Those are for mothers." And what else is there to know, really?

***