Our baby-toddler, Ava Scarlett turned eighteen months old last week, and I only know this because I was mindful of the date our son Oliver rode his bike without his training wheels for the very first time. I wanted to make a mental note of it… of all these kinds of dates actually, because the time is really flying by in a blur.
This sweet, dimpled baby girl, being our second child, is already having all her “milestones” nearly forgotten, as it is with most second children… and the third, and the rest, if there are more in the family. (But no more kids for this mummy – fuck no!) She is so desperate to keep up with her brother in every possible way – following him everywhere, trying to do the same things, play the same games, climb the same heights – and she can be so cooperative (sometimes) and confident and fearless, I sometimes forget that she’s really just a baby still.
I don’t even carry photos of them in my wallet because if you just look just next to me at almost any given point of the day, there they are.
Martin and I made the decision to enroll her in the same preschool that Oliver just graduated from, starting this September. This is a WHOLE YEAR earlier than when Oliver started. Some days I worry that it’s too soon, and what can I possibly be thinking… she can’t even drink from a cup without a sippy spout yet! (Not without making a complete mess of herself, I should say.) She’s still in a diaper. She sucks her thumb. She is a baby.
But the truth is, I could really, really use the break from mummyhood, all day, all the time. Really. I’ve become less of the patient, fun mum that I like to be, and more of the screeching-Howler-monkey variety. I never knew I could yell so much, so loudly, or so often. When the Small Ones are all up in my grill, all the freaking time this way, my daily dealings with them can almost border on abuse. (Okay, no, not really…bad joke.) But drive me crazy, they do. It’s been a lousy summer fraught with way too much rain, and we’ve been indoors. A lot. My kids don’t need a mad-mummy. I need a break.
Oliver will be in kindergarden full days, and Madame will attend school three mornings a week until noon. I think this is good for everyone. I feel so much more relieved and patient after I’ve been able to miss them for even a short while, like after a solo shopping trip. Even a rare trip to the grocery store on my own takes half the time, and my frayed patience is only reserved for idiot, inconsiderate shoppers and their kids wreaking havoc in the malls. I return home thinking my kids are actually terribly cute, and I miss their little faces and voices… unfortunately, this is seldom the case. They’re with me all the time. I mean seriously. I don’t even carry photos of them in my wallet because if you just look just next to me at almost any given point of the day, there they are. All. The. Time.
I need to get back to a time when I could answer their questions with a smile, and say “Yes, my darling, what can I do for you?” rather than with the teeth-clenched annoyed glare of “ohchristalmightywhatnow? WHAT NOW?!” It’s not the life of responsibility. It’s not the thankless life of servitude I’m chucked into day after day – I can take it. I just need a break.
Sometimes I worry that it’s too soon. Sometimes I feel like September cannot come fast enough.
I could almost make like she’s a Capri-Sun juice pack and stab a straw in her neck and slurp out some of my youth units she and her brother have stolen from me…
In the meantime, I’m trying to make a conscious effort to enjoy our time together the best I can. I cuddle this little baby more and more, until she’s looking at me sideways, wondering what the hell mummy is doing to her. Killing her with kisses, is what I’m doing.
Late at night, when I give her that “dream feed” bottle of milk to ensure she has a full belly until a proper morning rise of after 7:00 AM, I will hold her in my arms for a little bit longer, watching her sleep contentedly. Everything about her is so much bigger than it was… legs longer and chunkier in the thigh… arms splayed this way and that, with bigger hands, longer fingers… her impossibly long eyelashes resting on chubby, rosy cheeks… I can’t help but stroke her buttery skin for a little bit. So ridiculously soft and smooth and perfect. I could almost make like she’s a Capri-Sun juice pack and stab a straw in her neck and slurp out some of my youth units she and her brother have stolen from me…
Relax – I’m not a crazy person. (Okay, I AM a bit of a crazy person, but I’m not about to harm my kids. I’m not unstable like that.) I’ve still got those fucking vampires on the brain. Damn that Twilight series!!
Babies grow fast. If I’m not careful, I’m going to miss enjoying all of this time. I’ll save my tears for September.
G.G.
