“Oh my God! She’s eating it!” The adorable, effeminate young man scanning my groceries made this surprised proclamation to me while he scanned the empty wrapper of Hello Kitty lip balm. I’m sure his elevated, yet musical tone when alerting me to the fact of my toddler eating Chapstick was with all good intentions, but I didn’t respond in the same manner in which he’d delivered the revelation.
I looked up at my toddler in the front of the grocery basket, and she turned towards me and grinned, all while her tongue dug devilishly into the half-eaten tube.
“Please don’t eat that baby or I’m taking it away,” I told my mischievous daughter. I spoke in my nice mommy voice, because, well, I was too damn tired to yell anyway. Not that my raised voice ever helped anything.
I turned toward the checker, his eyes still wide, and added, “Yeah, she’s addicted. It’s cool though. It keeps her from getting constipated.”
Point being, if I got up in arms over every little annoyance my toddler was involved in then I’d be a complete wreck. Despite how utterly adorable she may be, she’s crazy, and sometimes I just want to stab myself in the eye with a dull pencil before dealing with it for one more second. Sometimes mommy needs a break from Dora and saying, “no. I said no!”
My toddler is definitely my “1 – 2 – 2 1/2 – 2 3/4… child,” meaning that I’m constantly counting to three and threatening to spank her little bootie. She’s consistently testing my limits, and blatantly disobeying. Just to see if she can.
In a five minute car ride she will remove her shoes, hair bow, and most of her clothes before we reach our destination. She does this every time, so each time I go from point A to point B I have to stop and redress my darling before we exit the car.
It’s hard to keep my nice mommy voice when I’m in a hurry, or tired, or just not feeling my best. But each time she grins that crazy, cute smile I deescalate immediately. Most of the time.
Children will teach you what really matters in life, and what’s really worth getting upset over. They’ll show you that some battles aren’t worth fighting, and getting overly upset is not worth the guilt. Simple annoyances like an addiction to lip balm and discarded shoes are of little importance in the grand scheme.
But she gives it her best to test my abilities at keeping my cool.
We have our whining phase, where everything is cry worthy material, and she still hasn’t completely forgiven me for taking her precious boobie away from her. When faced this morning with the reality that breastfeeding is no more, she responded by head-butting me painfully in my cleavage. Nothing like a precordial thump before you’ve even had coffee.
She’s my climber, the child that hits, and the one who figures out how to open the top or lid to just about anything. Especially if it’s off limits.
She’s the one that’s making me pay for my raising. She’s the one I have to watch every minute. And I still don’t have any Chapstick left in the house.
But when I look at her I melt. I can think I’m ready to explode, but one look into her huge, hazel eyes and I’m reduced to useless putty in her chubby little hands. Sigh. I love it.
Each child has brought things out of me I never knew were there. Unconditional love, protectiveness that goes beyond anything I ever imagined. Selflessness and sacrifice naturally. But this child has also brought out frustrations in me that I didn’t know I could experience. Yet, I still use my nice mommy voice. She somehow has that effect as well.
The next sixteen years or so should be interesting with this one. I can’t begin to imagine what she has in store for this lady here. I hold her at night as we rock, and she tosses and turns in my lap, fighting sleep with all she has.
As I hold her still, and I rub her back, I pray that I will be the mother God wants me to be for her. I pray that she sees Jesus in me. And I try to use my nice mommy voice, despite it all.