They say you’re never truly ready, for kids, and I suppose that’s so. I certainly gave myself adequate time waiting until my thirties to start a family. Even then I will concede that “they” were right. You are truly never ready. It’s because even if you think you know what to expect, like you’ve read the book “What To Expect;” you’ll still never truly know what to expect. There’s just too many variables. What one person totes as parenting gospel may never be pertinent to your child, or the things they forget to mention initiate you into full-fledged parenthood. As a side note this usually this occurs around 2am.
The one thing I felt pretty certain of was the expedient passage of time. There was no way I could miss that golden nugget. Everyone, every single well-wisher and advice giver had warned me of the treacherous sands of the hourglass, the fleeting moments of childhood.
Don’t blink! They will grow up before your eyes!
So I knew it was coming. I had been prepared. By everyone. Every mommy who had proceeded me in the great call of motherhood warned me that my kids would grow up. And quickly. So I should have been all set. But I wasn’t.
They told me not to blink, but they didn’t explain how I’d feel if I did. Or even how I’d feel if I didn’t.
They didn’t explain that one day I would get you out of the bathtub and almost lose it there on the water soaked rug. I wouldn’t expect you to be so tall. As I sat on my knees and wrapped the fuzzy, green towel around your slippery body you would tower over me and it would catch me unaware. My mind would flashback to your first bath, the first time I let you get in the “big” bathtub. As I wrapped the adult towel around you and you shivered, “burr Momma,” I would wonder when we stopped using the pink, baby towels, and moved into adult ones.
I couldn’t recall. I must have blinked.
No one told me how quickly teeth came once they got started. You had just one pearly nub. And then you had six! You would grin at me while puréed fruit spilled out of the corners of your open smile, and I would see a mouthful of tiny teeth beaming at me.
When did I decide you could handle apple slices over apple sauce? I cannot recall. I must have blinked.
The good-intentioned advisors never told me how it would feel to see you in the bed this morning. So big. You weren’t curled into a ball between your Daddy’s feet or nuzzled under his arm like you used to do. Your head sat upon a large pillow, your golden curls splayed around you like a halo. The cover sat under your chin where you had pulled it to keep yourself warm. You did not resemble the little girl I expected to see. In your place laid a big girl, no doubt dreaming big girl dreams.
What happened to the little baby that we kept elevated on a pillow between us? She was gone. I can only assume I blinked.
Why didn’t they tell me how my heart would pull and twist in my chest at the absence of the baby you used to be, how I would feel afraid? I would silently cry to God, But what will I do when she’s not little anymore Lord? I had grown accustomed to taking care of you. What would I do when I couldn’t do that? When you no longer needed that?
I had to turn from you then, it hurt so bad. I had to blink. To blink away the tears.
No one told me how it would feel when you first said, “I love you.” No one explained the excitement, shock, and melancholy mixed with joy. Weren’t you just saying “MaMa” not so long ago? How can the words I’ve waited to hear you say clinch my heart in more ways than one?
You learn so quick. The words just keep coming. I can’t keep up. I’m so proud of you, but it makes me want to cry. When did you stop pointing and start speaking? I’m not really sure. I must have blinked.
When you ride your bike I follow you down the street in stunned silence. My heart leaps with excitement as you peddle all by yourself. Then you turn, you look back at me, and you smile. And I force my eyes to stay open. They sting with proud yet silly, sad tears, but I keep watching you, transfixed. “Come on Momma!” you call out. And I do; I follow you. I’d follow you forever if you’d let me.
I remember when you had to be pushed on your red and blue tricycle. You would cry out in excitement, yet fear, “faster, slow down!” When did you get so brave to pedal on two wheels? I’m not sure. I must have blinked.
I knew, even in my first-time-mom naivety, that I wouldn’t know it all. I knew I would have unexpected surprises no matter how many books I read. But I figured I had the passage of time, the curse of fleeting childhood under control. After all, I had certainly heard enough about it. I knew it was coming. I knew I better not blink!
I just didn’t realize it would happen in a blink. In the blink of an eye I would see a newborn become a big girl. In the blink of an eye I’d see you had changed. I see your face look less like a baby and more like a lady. I would see my own mother in your face and be reminded of the fragility of it all.
So I’d hold you with open eyes. I would do the only thing I could do. I would laugh often at the funny things you do. I would play peek-a-boo at every opportunity. I would hold you every time you asked. Every time. I would play outside, and read books, and build forts, and bake cookies. I would say “I love you.” I would say it a lot, even if I had just said it.
These things wouldn’t make time stop or even slow down, but it would somehow make the passing easier, a passing without regret.
If I had it to do all over again I would. Every single part. But this time I definitely wouldn’t blink.