I'm sitting in the dark office with only the light of the computer. I need to be in bed now, but am having a hard time wrapping up the day.
It was a good day, really. A busy day. A mad rush intensity day at a client site. But it was good. So why am I off kilter wanting to procrastinate letting it go, letting tomorrow come?
Della is in transition from the baby room to the toddler room at daycare. Tuesday we had our formal transition meeting, and next monday is her first official day in the toddler room. I did not truly realize that parenting would be so much about change and letting go whether or not I'm ready.
I'm feeling nostalgic? yes, nostalgic. Loving where we are, but shocked at how quickly time is flying by. It has no mercy at all, time. Sort of like gravity. Merciless.
I hold my now big girl and sort of feel astonished, really. I have not even truly believed that she is here, and here she is, BIG and almost a year and a half old already. I remember holding my hands over my belly while she somersaulted and wondering who this person would be, and here she is, wildly smiling joyful full of life ALIVE and growing in every moment.
We have moments where she looks me deeply in the eyes, or holds my face for a moment (stillness is so very fleeting in this one), and says momma, and I can barely breathe from it. I feel nearly crushed with the bigness of this, the BIG NESS of this.
I hold her and say, holy crap, look at me, holding a baby. Holding a
real, whole person. Holding DELLA. It is just as surprising as holding a
wild animal, or being in space. Astonishing.
I hear other parents talk about their kids, and they seem to be
so at ease with the truth of it, of the fact that they are parents, that
they have a kid or kids, that this just is what is. I confess to envy
for those who seem so sure of the truth of their lives, effortless
I know (with some sort of semi-sheepish self-compassion) that I am still in the infertility PTSD mode of worrying I will lose her. Of holding my hand on her back while she sleeps. I can't help it yet. I don't quite believe she is here, and feel, somehow, it is up to me, up to my quiet constant vigilance to stay in this dream. As if I might wake up, find myself without her.
This sounds SERIOUS and BIG but it isn't. It is more like a haze, a wash; not debilitating, but it is my truth. I wish I could say otherwise, I wish I could say I've relaxed into poopy diapers and baby-sized food and crumbs down my shirt and the wonder of folding pairs of tiny socks... but really, no. There are poopy diapers, and baby food, and crumbs and wonder, but there is also this ever-present tinge of disbelief, this veil of something that feels like a kind of distance, like in the old days when I held myself separate to keep myself safe. It is a little like that but with a big big difference. I am also much closer to my own heart than I've ever been. So to call it distance is not quite fair. I've never been this rawboned, this opened up, this filled with an inexpressible love.
I'll go to bed now. Holding the dichotomy of such huge cracked-open openness and this persistent disbelief or whateveritis that feels somewhat unreal.
how about you? Those of you who have made it into the land of unicorns and babies, does this feel real to you? if not, how do you feel about that?