Grandma and Grandpa to the rescue

My husband was out of town for several days during the month of June (side note: by the end of a 9-day stretch, only God could have stood between me and the man/woman/mechanical airplane issue/weather-related delay that would have attempted to keep him from arriving home to me as scheduled).  This situation in general sucked, first because I love him and he’s my best friend and I just plain miss him when he’s not around.  But second, his role in making our family function effectively was noticeably absent.  When one component of a system breaks down, either the entire operation comes to a halt or the other pieces have to work harder to compensate.  I will say both of these happened on occasion while he was gone.

 

Enter Grandma and Grandpa (a.k.a. my son’s best friends over the last month, a.k.a. a blessed distraction from Daddy’s absence, a.k.a. my right hand, a.k.a. my saving grace).  As they always do, my parents offered to help us out in any way they could, and we agreed they would come for a few days over one weekend to help me “break up the time.”  I kept saying I’d be fine and it was up to them and it was really no big deal, but I am so glad they knew I was just being stubborn.  And a little dumb.

 

Naturally, our four-month-old daughter selected this opportunity to embark on a sleep regression/growth spurt/strike of some sort.  After several nights in a row of multiple wakings and fussiness culminating with an awful Friday night, I had reached my limit by Saturday.  I had been under the weather all week and working every day, and I felt like a poor zombie excuse for a mother pieced together with some haphazardly applied make-up and bobby pins.  I slogged through the morning and made sure everyone got lunch.  When my mom suggested I lie down after I had put the baby down for a nap, it didn’t take much convincing to get me to go to bed.

 

My eyes opened at 2:30 in the afternoon to two distinct sounds.  The first was the sound of my baby’s “waking up” cry.  I knew she would be hungry, so I got out of bed and drowsily made my way to her bedroom.  When I opened the door I was surprised to see my mom holding her.  “Oh,” I said, “did she just wake up?”  My mom glanced at the clock thoughtfully and said with a smile, “No…she first woke up about 45 minutes ago, and I’ve been rocking her ever since.  I wanted you to get some rest.”  She looked so happy to have had the opportunity.

 

The second sound I had heard when I woke up was the garage door opening.  This struck me as slightly odd because my parents are from out of town and tend to not venture out much on their own when they visit.  As I carried my daughter downstairs my dad was walking in the door.  “I went to a couple places and found the part you need to fix this leaky faucet,” he said, motioning to the kitchen sink.  “But, I think they’re charging too much so I’m going to find it cheaper for you online.”  Dad was disappointed, not because he had wasted his own time trying to solve our problems, but because he wasn’t able to fix it for us that day himself.

 

I was utterly speechless.  On any typical day, these two acts of kindness – holding my baby and trying to fix our blasted sink – seem nice enough and may make you smile in appreciation.  However, in that moment, it was all I could do to keep from crying.  Those small things that seemed so natural and insignificant to them meant more to me than I could express, and they came just at the right time.  I needed a win, big time. 

 

It was then I realized parents just keep giving to their kids.  That week in particular I had been feeling the weight of my children’s demands on me alone – food, comfort, snuggles, baths, clean clothes –and after simply meeting what I consider their basic needs I had nothing left to give.  As a mother of young children, I often feel that way.  That I’m spending so much time caught up in the minutiae of daily routines that I can’t stop to think about anything else.  But my parents had swooped in to joyfully fill the gaps.  They helped get our system back up and running in my husband’s absence, and they induced many toddler and baby giggles in the process. 

 

As I marvel at what I perceive as a sacrifice on their part, I am aware they do not view it that way at all.  I dare say the fact that my three-year-old goes to the guest bedroom first thing in the morning when they are visiting is a blessing to all of us.   Of course we will do whatever we can for family, and especially for our children.  It’s more of a reaction than a choice.  And it brings us joy. 

 

Grandparents: heroes in the eyes of their grandchildren.  And their own children.  Thanks, Mom and Dad.

Mommy ears

I recently came across a humorous survey of moms responding to the question, “What do you want for Mother’s Day?”  Many of the responses centered around time to themselves, the chance to read a book, sleep, folded laundry, or simply the ability to pee uninterrupted.  You know, the luxuries.  While I could relate to most of these, one in particular made me laugh out loud (or LOL, as the kids say): “I would like to gift my husband with my Mommy ears so he could hear the baby fart in the next room.”  SO.  TRUE. 

This is by no means a daddy-bashing session; rather, it is a commentary on one of the unique qualities that make mommies, well, mommies (and that make us drink wine).  My husband is an amazing daddy and he certainly pulls his weight.  However, he is also an incredibly sound sleeper and he’s not a mom.  Those two factors mean that his nights tend to be a little more on the restful side, particularly with little ones in the house.  I. Hear. Everything.  And it drives me crazy.  Every cough, every whimper, every sigh – monitor not required.  But perhaps the most troubling sound is silence.  Only a mother could be startled awake in the middle of the night by a complete absence of sound and think, “My gosh!  I just slept for 4 hours straight!  Is everyone okay?!  Are they breathing?”  Ah yes, the added bonus of Mommy ears is the accompanying Mommy paranoia that seeps in and convinces me I need to monitor everyone’s heart rate before I can hope to doze off again myself. 

My favorite sitcom without a doubt is Friends, and I’m guilty of having much of the dialogue of many episodes memorized.  I’m reminded of the one where Rachel is struggling to leave her new baby with a sitter for the first time.  In an effort to convince her to get out of the apartment, Ross pushes her out the door, accidentally locking them out.  As Rachel’s panic rises, Ross sarcastically describes a vivid scenario involving a flooding apartment, a kitchen fire, and an eagle that has flown in the window and seized baby Emma in its talons.  I chuckled at this scene as a young college chicky, appreciating the humor and siding with Ross in his belief that Rachel had a touch of the crazies. 

Now that I have children of my own, it doesn’t seem quite so far-fetched.  In fact, I find myself often imagining the worst case scenario.  This hits me hardest in the middle of the night (seriously, why is everything a little bit more uncertain in the dark?  Including my sanity?).  Room temperature, a child’s comfort, too many/too few blankets, a misplaced stuffed animal, an unswaddled swaddle, an unlocked window, the mere possibility of spilled water or a full diaper…all of these things have made me get out of bed in the wee hours of the morning “just to make sure” everything is okay.  As I lay awake in my bed trying to will myself back to sleep, I am aware it is highly unlikely someone would dodge our security system, shimmy up the pole on the porch, somehow scale the walls of our home, and force themselves into a second story bedroom through a partially open window.  However, to borrow Rachel’s response to Ross’s monologue, “You are going to be so sorry if that’s true.”  So it’s best to check, you know, just to make sure.

Having recently been through the newborn stage, I was reminded my paranoia is particularly heightened during this period.  I literally could not sleep in the same room as my babies during the first month of their lives.  I of course wanted them in the same room with me, but I’m just saying there was no sleep happening on my part when they were there.  In order to grant me some rest, my saint of a husband would take the baby downstairs for a few hours so I could fall asleep.  I just needed to know someone else was in charge, and I needed to be out of earshot of every little grunt and newborn squeak. 

So yes, my Mommy ears drive me crazy.  But being the half glass full kind of person I am, I also try to enjoy the benefits they offer.  Most of the time, I worry for nothing, so it really just gives me a chance to see my little angels completely silent and restful.  They are especially lovable when they’re not making a sound.  Watching my children sleep absolutely fills my heart, so getting a few extra chances to do that isn’t a bad thing.  But for goodness’ sake, I hightail it out of the room if they so much as rustle, because I don’t want to be there if they open their eyes.  After all, I need some freaking sleep.

Being the parent

You know that thing where you birth a child, love them with every fiber of your being, rearrange your life around them, see to their every physical and emotional need, and then they hit the age of three and don’t listen to a single word you say?  Yeah, that.  Of course I’m exaggerating.  Our son listens to some things we say.  In fact, his hearing becomes particularly acute when he hears the words “ice cream” or “library.”  But when we’re asking him to complete a task (go potty, get ready for bed, clean up your toys, etc.), he sometimes likes to exert his independence.  It’s frustrating.  Beyond frustrating – it’s absolutely maddening.  And since I’m a human with selfish tendencies and a need to be recognized, it also makes me sad and a little indignant – sometimes to the point where I have to bite my tongue and push aside the childish urge to scream, “Don’t you realize what I do for you?!  You’re WELCOME!”

But I don’t get to say that.  I don’t get to throw the tantrum, because instead I get the joyful task of being the parent.  “Being the parent” in these cases means essentially that you get the crappy job of making everyone cry – yes, yourself included.  Tonight we had a brawl over the bedtime routine.  After consistent pushback on my requests to go to the bathroom, brush his teeth, and get his pajamas on, I introduced a consequence: no bedtime stories.  Consequences are so easy to throw out there, and it’s great when they create an immediate response.  However, I’ve noticed the older my son gets the more he likes to try and call our bluff.  Dammit. 

Following through on consequences is unbelievably hard.  And I realize now that parents really do not enjoy doing so – as a matter of fact, I absolutely hate it.  I would much rather a threat correct the situation without actually having to be enacted.  But when my son continued to push me, I had to follow through.  There would be no stories tonight.  What he doesn’t comprehend (and likely won’t until he has his own children) is this news hit me as hard as it did him.  I love story time with him, and I hate seeing him cry.  Both of those things were ruined when I had to be the parent.  This just further adds to my frustration because if he had listened in the first place, we’d all be happy and snuggling in his bed and having that perfect family moment that I assumed happened in households every night.

As I sat in the room across the hall, rocking the baby to sleep to the sounds of my three-year-old’s cries, tears streamed down my own face.  Tears because he was crying, because I felt guilty, because I assumed he would think I don’t love him, because I thought he would hate me, and because I realized looking down at the sweet angel falling asleep in my arms that we would be in this same place in three more years.  And for the umpteenth time I thought, “Being the parent is freaking hard.”

In the process of getting over my drama, I was able to find some comfort in reflecting on my own childhood.  I kept thinking I don’t remember it being like this.  I don’t remember fighting my parents and crying when I didn’t get my way.  After I reluctantly refused the conclusion that I must have been some sort of perfect child I realized the likely truth – I don’t remember that stuff because it is overshadowed by the good.  When I think back to bedtime as a child, I remember that my parents read to me, and I felt safe and loved.  I’m sure we had nights like mine tonight, but they’re not top of mind for me.  I worry so much about breaking my child by making him angry, but the reality is he likely won’t remember this in thirty years (or tomorrow morning for that matter).  What seems like a big deal to me is just another learning experience for him.  And if I want him to turn out to be a decent, respectful human being, he has to understand boundaries.

Enter the parent (sigh).  I’m learning more and more it can be a thankless and exhausting job, but it’s what we signed up for, right?  I’ll keep pushing through these frustrating experiences one at a time, trying to remind myself for every awful night with no bedtime stories there are countless memories to be made of snuggles in a twin bed surrounded by stuffed animals.  Those are the nights I live for.

Week one: take two

It’s been one week since we welcomed our baby girl into the world.  One week of rediscovering the snuggles, gassy smiles, dinosaur-squeaky baby sounds, black-to green-to-yellow poop evolution, and the downright joy that comes from holding your newborn in your arms and staring at them in awe.  I could do it all day.  For as many things that are familiar about having a second child, there are many more that have been different this time around.  I expected as much given what I’ve heard from friends and family with multiples, but starting to discover them for ourselves this week has been in general, well, freeing.

The differences started when we first brought baby girl home from the hospital.  When we had our son, I had put painstaking thought into ensuring all the details were in place.  There was the rocking chair where I would nurse him, and the lamp was placed close enough to provide light for feedings and changing diapers, but not so close that it would be distracting.  The changing table was set up and stocked with all necessary supplies in reach. 

This time around, shortly after arriving home our daughter dirtied her diaper.  I turned to my husband with a curious look and said, “Where are the diapers?”  I wasn’t panicked, just genuinely interested in whether we had actually purchased some.  They were in her closet, in the box, rather than organized neatly in a diaper stacker that matched the theme of her nursery.  So we cracked them open, dug up some wipes, and set up a makeshift changing station in the living room (read: towel on the floor).  After all, who wants to go upstairs every time you need to change a diaper?

When our daughter woke up for her first middle of the night feeding at home, I realized again that I didn’t have a plan...and that I didn't need one.  I drowsily grabbed the boppy pillow, propped myself up in bed, and nursed her in the dark with my eyes closed.  Much easier than walking to her nursery to sit in the rocking chair.  And that reminds me, we don’t have a lamp in her room yet.

After we brought our first child home from the hospital, I was obsessed with bathing him and keeping him clean, convinced that lotions were what provided that fresh baby smell.  This time around, I am putting off bathing our daughter because 1) I now know from experience that she will hate it, and 2) I love how she smells on her own.  I’m convinced it’s the sweetest smell in the world and I would only ruin it with soap and water.  She basically stays in a sleeper until her diaper betrays its cleanliness, and the only bathing she receives is in the form of endless kisses from Mommy.

Another thing that has subsided somewhat is the general paranoia of first-time parents.  Of course, I don’t sleep as soundly as I did before, and I’m constantly worrying about her temperature, comfort, safety, etc.  I hear every noise she makes and check on her to make sure she’s okay.  However, the sounds don’t alarm me.  I don’t have a list of questions a mile long for her next pediatrician visit, which somehow doesn’t seem as far away as it did with our son.  My Google history from the past week isn’t filled with phrases like “baby startles in sleep,” “what color should newborn poop be,” and “how long does it take a cord to fall off.”  She’s doing her thing, and we’re figuring it out as we go.  And why waste time on Google when I could be sleeping.

And finally, there has also been a major difference in the expectations I’ve had for myself to bounce back from a serious life event.  I am truly in awe of what my body was able to accomplish – growing a human life for 39 weeks and 6 days, laboring off and on for almost 48 hours, and then finally bringing a beautiful little girl into the world.  I know that recovery takes time, and my body will slowly get back to normal.  I remember being horrified that I had to wear maternity clothes to my son’s first infant check-up (hello, a few days after he was born!  I mean seriously, give myself a break, but I just didn’t know what to expect).  When we took my daughter to the doctor, however, I wore a fitted maternity shirt because that little paunch was what I had to show for what my body had accomplished a mere three days earlier, and dammit I was proud.  I haven’t stepped on the scale “just to see” how much I’ve already lost, nor do I intend to.  And while I feel good I also know that I’m just going to look tired for a while.  My color might seem a little off.  If I do try to wear make-up, I understand it just doesn’t quite “take” like it normally would.  I won’t often have time to blow dry my hair, which all in all just means I won’t look like the regular me for a while.  But that’s okay – I give myself grace, and it is so liberating.

The profound love I have for this tiny little baby is matched only by the equal feeling I have for her brother.  That has not changed with baby #2.  I am just as focused on giving her a happy home and making her feel loved.  However, I now realize how many things are unimportant in ensuring those things happen.  Instead, my daughter and I will spend our time snuggling in the jammies we both wore yesterday, and that is just fine with me. 

The people we are at church

I like the people we are at church.  I don’t know if the setting actually changes us, or if I just have a perception (accurate or not) of how we appear that pleases me.  Even if the morning was filled with battles over why we don’t eat cheese for breakfast or the necessity of using the restroom before we leave, it somehow seems to fall into place when we enter those doors.  Regardless of what happened that morning or even that week, we are there as a family and we are reasonably put together.  We are bathed and dressed up, toddler bed-head deliberately tamed because, after all, it’s Sunday.  We are there for a reason – to share in a community of faith – and we have identified this as important enough to the life of our family that we haul ourselves out of bed each week for the early service.  And sometimes, it just works.

 

I like to think there is a spiritual presence in the walls of the church that places a calm on our morning.   I know this has more to do with a mindset than a setting, but maybe, just maybe this is our weekly recharge and we need this place to help us refocus.  As I sit in the pew next to my son, I don’t think about the times he’s tested my patience that week.  Somehow being in church reminds me that he is an incredible blessing from God, and I only see the positive things.  I notice the way he stares intently at the pipe organ while the music plays and pretends to read the hymnal to sing.  I admire the sweet profile of his face and brush the hair away from his ears.  Fearfully and wonderfully made in the image of God – that’s powerful stuff.  And when he folds his hands in prayer to mimic those around him, I’m convinced he can do no wrong.  I am so grateful for what we have, and it leads me to want to give back.

 

Of course it’s also possible that part of this equation is just my enjoying the perception of family I hope we project.  Fellow church members fawn over our son and tell us repeatedly how adorable and sweet he is.  Who doesn’t love to hear that?  People compliment his outfit and I feel a sense of relief, thinking to myself, “Oh, good, they don’t realize he has exactly three ‘church shirts’ and one pair of ‘church shoes’ that provide for a less-than-impressive rotation.”  I vainly imagine that there is something to be admired about our little family, that we might actually be thought of as having our stuff together.  That thought, even if it only lasts an hour or two on Sunday mornings, is such a refreshing break to allow myself after a week filled with mommy guilt and self-doubt.  For whatever we’ve done imperfectly in the last week, it’s right that we’re there.  And that’s all that matters.

 

Don’t get me wrong, we’ve had our share of, err, learning opportunities with our son regarding whether he should sit in church through the sermon or go play in the nursery, what is an acceptable distance to be separated from Mommy during the children’s message, and what actually constitutes a “whisper.”  But somehow on Sunday mornings I recognize these things as adequately trivial.  My perspective on things that would perhaps rattle me in a different setting is more accurate when I’m in that place.  We’re just an imperfect but loving family working on it week by week alongside everyone else.  We don’t do everything right, but at least our focus on Sunday mornings is in the right place. 

 

That place….I wish I could get there more often.  Sure, we go to church regularly and are often there a couple evenings a week for various activities.  But beyond the physical sense, I wish I could more often get to “the place” that the church provides me on Sunday mornings.  The sense of calm and mature perspective on what really matters, a time to refocus on something outside of ourselves and stop to appreciate what God has provided.  I need to find more moments like this in my day and for my family, because I really like the people we are when we’re there.

We are pregnant

I’ve always been a little snobby about the statement “We are pregnant.”  Yes, it takes two to bring life into the world, and a mother and father both waiting to welcome a child with outstretched arms is a beautiful thing.  “We are expecting…We are having a baby…We are due in 6 months…” – these are all perfectly acceptable to me.  The prep work and anticipation can be shared equally, as can the parenting duties once the child arrives.  But let’s be honest, when it gets down to it, only one of us is pregnant.  Only one of us is physically growing a baby and enjoying all the changes that go along with it.

Pregnancy is just plain hard work, and we as women know that men can never truly understand this.  So we try to make them appreciate it by subtly hinting at what ails us.  “I went downstairs and laid in the recliner last night for 3 hours, did I wake you up?...I just need to sit down - I’ve been in the kitchen all afternoon and my back is screaming at me…I just need to walk – my hips are sore…I don’t have hips anymore, so I don’t know how I’m supposed to cart around this laundry basket...I wish I knew what my bra size was this week!!...No, seriously, do you know what it’s like to feel like someone is clawing into your hip?...Well, I’m standing, so I guess that means I have to pee…Do you know where your sciatic nerve is?  I DO!”  Again, subtle hints.

 

To the general public and anyone who asks, I am an energetic pregnant lady, loving every minute of this ride (which overwhelmingly is true, honest, I really can’t complain).  But the annoyances have to come out somewhere, so we reserve the best for those we are closest to – enter my sweet hubby.  It’s true he will never himself feel what it’s like to be pregnant, but as I think about his behavior over the last few months it makes me second guess my soapbox.  When I interject one of my not-so-casual complaints, he always responds with genuine support and sympathy.  “Go sit down, I’ll do the dishes…Go walk on the treadmill for a while – I’ll handle bedtime tonight…Let me carry that…I’m sorry you’re not sleeping well, should I go to the guest room?...Is there anything I can do?”  And when I wake up in the middle of the night and sit up to stretch, he often silently rubs my back or whispers his thanks for carrying his child.

It occurs to me that perhaps the concept of being “pregnant” can be expanded beyond the literal, physical sense.  If pregnant means your life is completely altered for 9 months in anticipation of a child and you take on some burdens you otherwise wouldn’t, then yes, I would absolutely say we are pregnant.  As my gentleman of a husband quickly bends over to grab our son’s shoes before I have to and looks for every opportunity to make my life easier, I know that his life is different, too.  I know that when he offers compliments and reflexively responds to my complaints with affirmation, he is holding up his end of the deal.  It’s reasonable to think that living with a hormonal, self conscious partner is probably no picnic either, so I’m willing to expand my definition of pregnant to acknowledge that.

This realization hit me like a bolt of lightning when we took a mini family vacation this weekend to an indoor waterpark.  As we were packing up to return home, I watched my husband balance my body pillow on his shoulders, stuff my other pillow under his arm, and fill his hands with luggage as he prepared for the long, cold walk to the parking lot at the other end of the resort.  For some reason that sight grabbed me by the shoulders (oh, my poor, tense shoulders) and shook me a little bit.  I suddenly felt incredibly touched by his willingness to cart around my prego paraphernalia, no questions asked, and his determination to have his wife and son walk no further than 20 feet in the cold.  I was immediately filled with appreciation for all the moments of support – big and small – he has shown over the last few months that I often take for granted.  As I started to catalogue them in my mind, I realized what a change this is in his life as well.  And it occurred to me in that moment: this guy might be a little bit pregnant.

Let them be toddlers

I recently took my son to the library, which he loves because of the children’s room full of legos, trains, and firefighter hats.  Incidentally, this visit went much more smoothly than the last because I am now fully informed of the library’s hours.  Never again will I enter the doors right before the 10 minute warning is sounded over the loudspeaker, only to endure the wrath of a two-year-old who wasn’t allowed time to build the tower of his dreams (seriously, the library closes at 5 o’clock on a Friday?!). 

But anyway, that’s not my point.  The real purpose of this post is to lament about the conversations I overheard from other parents of toddlers.  As my son was occupying himself at the train table, I was distracted in overhearing a woman say, “Did your son just say ‘existentialism’?”  It was a mother of another boy whose age I would estimate at 18 months.  Her question was directed at a father who was hovering over his three-year-old.  “Oh yes,” he replied, “but he doesn’t quite know how to use it correctly yet.  His stronger talent is in music right now.  He loves Mozart, and he has always had an impeccable sense of rhythm.”

Huh?  Did he just say that?  His child is three!  Okay, so all of us think our children are geniuses, but who says something like that out loud, let alone to a stranger?  At least I had a kindred spirit in the unsuspecting mother as she replied only with polite and encouraging words.  She offered such phrases as “Oh, you must be so proud…That’s really impressive…” and multiple variations of this as the father made a spectacle of explaining to his son the proper architectural form to be used in building a structurally sound lego tower.  I did describe him as “hovering” over his child, correct?  That was intentional.

I shook that off as a fluke as I re-focused my attention on my son, who was explaining to me how the choo-choo goes over the bridge.  Yes, this is how a toddler should be.  As I was digging through the parts bin for extra sections of train track, I picked up on another conversation over by the dress-up clothes.  This one was about selecting a preschool.  Two mothers were talking, rather loudly, about the merits of homeschooling vs. Montessori schools vs. a private and very selective daycare.  One planned to homeschool as long as possible, while the other was weighing her options and in the process of conducting interviews.  “I just feel the personal attention and loving environment they receive at home from me is the best option, and then I control the curriculum,” said the first.  “We’re just looking for the best possible environment to help prepare them to be responsible adults and contributors to society,” said the other, explaining why she was also looking at options outside of the home.

Seriously, where was I?  Have I simply been sheltered from these conversations to this point because my son is just now nearing preschool age?  Are the friendly hellos I share with parents of children in my son’s daycare room masking some sort of crazy competitive urges that are just waiting to burst from all of us?  It made me sick.  Not only what I overheard and the thought of what may lie ahead, but also the voice in the back of my mind that started to wander…Should I expose my child to more classical music?  He definitely likes music, but would I say he has an impeccable sense of rhythm?  Should he?  Is his vocabulary large enough?

STOP.  That familiar, second guessing, mommy-guilt voice shut up quickly when my son put his arms around my waist and said, “This is fun, Mommy!  I love you!”  We happily selected some books to take home and went on our way.  As I reflect back on this experience, I learned several things:

1)      I am not ready for my son to grow up.  I’m not ready for parent committees and competitive sports leagues and grade point averages and blah blah blah.  He is perfectly unique the way he is, and I don’t want anyone comparing him to anyone else, and I definitely don’t want him comparing himself to others.

2)      I am in no hurry for my toddler to act like an adult.  Sure, we’ll continue to work on letters and numbers and make sure he has a supportive (yet fun) environment in which to learn at home.  We’ll teach proper manners and respect and make sure he’s helpful and polite.  However, we will also play in the rain, make messes, and laugh at silly things.  Because, he is a freaking toddler.  He has his whole life to be responsible.

3)      I will try my best not to hover.  He will be who he wants to be, and he will be interested in what he likes.  My job is to expose him to opportunities to find what makes him tick, regardless of what that ends up being.

4)      The most important thing to me is the type of person my child becomes.  Not his profession or his IQ or his favorite classical composer.  I’m concerned with how he treats people and that he remains humble and kind.  If he never engages in a conversation like the ones I overheard at the library, I’ll be happy.

5)      We’re in for it.  Based on what I learn from friends and coworkers with older children, it gets competitive fast.  It’s going to be hard – for my husband and I, yes, but more importantly for our child.  As we prepare to send him into the world this was a rude awakening to how huge that responsibility really is.  There’s a lot outside of the walls of our home, and he won’t be two forever. 

This parenting gig is pretty permanent, and I’m realizing the most important work is yet to come.  I won’t be perfect, I will falter many times, and I will no doubt go against the learnings I rattled off here.  I am grateful, however, for previews like this that make me stop and think.  When I get impatient with my son for not sitting still through church or neglecting to use his fork, the library parents come into my brain.  And suddenly, I am fine with his fidgeting and let the table manners go for a second, if for no other reason than spite – spite for those who would force our children to grow up faster than they need to.  It goes by quickly enough.