Before Asa was born, I decided that I would like to write letters to him when the mood struck, and collect them up and give them to him at some point when he is an adult. The idea is to overwhelm him with love in a way that will probably make me feel really great and make him feel kind of uncomfortable. But if I can't make my child uncomfortable by overloving him then WHAT THE HELL WAS I PUT ON THIS PLANET TO DO?!
Anyway, I wrote my 3rd or 4th letter to him on Monday, after a nice outing with a friend and fellow-mommy, that I thought many, if not all moms could relate to. Enjoy.
7-24-16 letter to Asa:
Today was really hard for some reason. We went to the aquarium with my friend Rachel and her 8-month old son, and you were mostly good. It was hard to hear a word from Rachel because there was so much noise echoing, and I was focused on corralling you without stifling your freedom. I let you walk most of the time, which turned to running, so we both ran, weaving in and out of people and stopping to hear you exclaim "a fish! A fish! Woooooowwwww!" Which was delightful. You are going through a phase where I give you verbal direction and you just ignore me, which is different from a few months ago when I could trust you to walk in the park with me for a half hour without you needing to be put back in the stroller. You do usually like to hold hands though, which is fantastic, but you get so incredibly frustrated and angry when I try to change directions, or when you can't do something for yourself (sorry- you get that from me, hopefully we can make you more comfortable with the learning process than I was).
Henry wanted Rachel to wear him in a front pack the whole time we walked. He would touch her face and smile this incredible smile. I felt myself getting jealous, which was ridiculous and, at the time, passed quickly. You are doing so many amazing things, and even though this phase can be brutal (I'm 7 months pregnant and wrestling a 25 pound toddler when you're carrying 15 pounds of unborn baby is no picnic), it's also amazing to see. You have SO MANY books memorized, and you page through them saying key words and inserting a little rhythmic jibberish in between. You ask for what you want; tonight you wanted a banana and toast and asparagus (pronounced "pabaragus," but I gave you green beans and you didn't mind) for dinner. You climb into the rocking chair and with an emphatic nod request "a milk" and then rock yourself. You still give great hugs, love music, laugh wholeheartedly, and read with an endless appetite.
But I can't comfort you the way I used to. When you are really frustrated and upset, I want to hold you, but what you need is for me to give you your space, and I wasn't ready for that yet. I finally understand the mothers that I never wanted to be, crying that their baby is growing up too fast, plunging their sticky hands toward any friends' infant they come near and then feeling like an enormous ass when that baby bursts into tears because her movements were too sudden, her laugh too loud. Her child isn't the only one who has grown out of the baby phase, she has too. She's a toddler-mommy now and has little appeal to sensitive infants.
Dad was having feelings this evening and I quickly absorbed them. We listed all the things that frustrated us throughout the day instead of talking about the fun we had or what we were able to accomplish, and then we found ourselves sitting in awkward silence. We tried to go to bed. I felt "off" but not despondent. I didn't feel like anything that had happened was a very big deal, but I couldn't sleep. He started snoring and I went downstairs to cry. As soon as I got to the bottom of the steps I felt it all. I saw the door to your room, not quite closed, not open enough to let any light in to disturb you. I felt a pang in my stomach and a shrinking in my ribcage.
I wished so much that I could go into your room and scoop you up and you would stay asleep. That I could stretch out in the recliner with you and we could wake up at sunrise fully rested and happy, but I knew I couldn't. I couldn't have even done that with you when you were tiny! It was a fantasy, and for some reason I was fully aware of the fact that, not only had that moment never happened, but that moment was in the past. So I just cried, for all the feelings of loss that everyday mothers feel as their babies grow, as their relationships with their partners change, as their bodies start to look like someone else's. I never thought motherhood would feel so lonely.
But even as I write this, your sister is kicking me, and I think of you smiling at me with your beautiful face. I know that when I walk into your room in the morning you will stand up and enthusiastically greet me with "a.. A mommy!" And then show me your turtle pillow, tell me it says "ribbit" and I'm sure you'll surprise me with some detail from a dream you had last night, and I will feel like I'm walking on clouds.
I'm excited to meet your sister, and see your relationship grow, but for now I'll have to settle for taking a peek at you after I go to the bathroom for the 3rd time tonight. I promise to always try to put your needs first, and to catch myself when I really really want to get you out of bed for a sleepy cuddle. I love you, Cookie.
xoxo,
Mommy
Anyway, I wrote my 3rd or 4th letter to him on Monday, after a nice outing with a friend and fellow-mommy, that I thought many, if not all moms could relate to. Enjoy.
7-24-16 letter to Asa:
Today was really hard for some reason. We went to the aquarium with my friend Rachel and her 8-month old son, and you were mostly good. It was hard to hear a word from Rachel because there was so much noise echoing, and I was focused on corralling you without stifling your freedom. I let you walk most of the time, which turned to running, so we both ran, weaving in and out of people and stopping to hear you exclaim "a fish! A fish! Woooooowwwww!" Which was delightful. You are going through a phase where I give you verbal direction and you just ignore me, which is different from a few months ago when I could trust you to walk in the park with me for a half hour without you needing to be put back in the stroller. You do usually like to hold hands though, which is fantastic, but you get so incredibly frustrated and angry when I try to change directions, or when you can't do something for yourself (sorry- you get that from me, hopefully we can make you more comfortable with the learning process than I was).
Henry wanted Rachel to wear him in a front pack the whole time we walked. He would touch her face and smile this incredible smile. I felt myself getting jealous, which was ridiculous and, at the time, passed quickly. You are doing so many amazing things, and even though this phase can be brutal (I'm 7 months pregnant and wrestling a 25 pound toddler when you're carrying 15 pounds of unborn baby is no picnic), it's also amazing to see. You have SO MANY books memorized, and you page through them saying key words and inserting a little rhythmic jibberish in between. You ask for what you want; tonight you wanted a banana and toast and asparagus (pronounced "pabaragus," but I gave you green beans and you didn't mind) for dinner. You climb into the rocking chair and with an emphatic nod request "a milk" and then rock yourself. You still give great hugs, love music, laugh wholeheartedly, and read with an endless appetite.
But I can't comfort you the way I used to. When you are really frustrated and upset, I want to hold you, but what you need is for me to give you your space, and I wasn't ready for that yet. I finally understand the mothers that I never wanted to be, crying that their baby is growing up too fast, plunging their sticky hands toward any friends' infant they come near and then feeling like an enormous ass when that baby bursts into tears because her movements were too sudden, her laugh too loud. Her child isn't the only one who has grown out of the baby phase, she has too. She's a toddler-mommy now and has little appeal to sensitive infants.
Dad was having feelings this evening and I quickly absorbed them. We listed all the things that frustrated us throughout the day instead of talking about the fun we had or what we were able to accomplish, and then we found ourselves sitting in awkward silence. We tried to go to bed. I felt "off" but not despondent. I didn't feel like anything that had happened was a very big deal, but I couldn't sleep. He started snoring and I went downstairs to cry. As soon as I got to the bottom of the steps I felt it all. I saw the door to your room, not quite closed, not open enough to let any light in to disturb you. I felt a pang in my stomach and a shrinking in my ribcage.
I wished so much that I could go into your room and scoop you up and you would stay asleep. That I could stretch out in the recliner with you and we could wake up at sunrise fully rested and happy, but I knew I couldn't. I couldn't have even done that with you when you were tiny! It was a fantasy, and for some reason I was fully aware of the fact that, not only had that moment never happened, but that moment was in the past. So I just cried, for all the feelings of loss that everyday mothers feel as their babies grow, as their relationships with their partners change, as their bodies start to look like someone else's. I never thought motherhood would feel so lonely.
But even as I write this, your sister is kicking me, and I think of you smiling at me with your beautiful face. I know that when I walk into your room in the morning you will stand up and enthusiastically greet me with "a.. A mommy!" And then show me your turtle pillow, tell me it says "ribbit" and I'm sure you'll surprise me with some detail from a dream you had last night, and I will feel like I'm walking on clouds.
I'm excited to meet your sister, and see your relationship grow, but for now I'll have to settle for taking a peek at you after I go to the bathroom for the 3rd time tonight. I promise to always try to put your needs first, and to catch myself when I really really want to get you out of bed for a sleepy cuddle. I love you, Cookie.
xoxo,
Mommy
