Me: "Who has the best seat in the house, me or daddy?"

Adam: "Well, Daddy's is nice, but yours is best. Your's is squishier."

Sunday, March 22, 2015

My Beebee Dahw

Oh, those eyes.
Those squeezable cheeks.
Those sweet little lips.
The hint of red in her brows and tousled curls.

Oh, how I love her. 


You sweet, naughty little thing.  You stay up too late talking to your "beebee dahw", a tiny doll you only think of when it's time to got to sleep.  You eat five bites out of every apple in the fruit bowl.  You unroll the toilet paper, unfasten your diaper, and un-tidy every room only moments after I have them all put together.  You get into mama's beads and throw them one at a time to watch them bounce.  You unroll my floss.  You empty the kleenex box.

Destructo traits aside, you are an amazing little person.  You watch and carefully copy as your sisters restock the DVD shelf you just emptied, making sure to get them all right side up.  You sit in our homeschool reading time and carefully turn the pages of a chapter book with no pictures in it,  You help me put the wash into the dryer, and scrub the walls and floors any chance you get.

I'd love to secretly film you as you studiously scribble on a notepad, or sing the credits of "Friends" late at night ("....Waaaay!  .....Aaaaaaay!  ...........Yoooooooou!!!!  Tooooooo!!!!")  
As soon as you learn to speak English I'll have to stop watching that in front of you.  One more reason for you not to grow up.

You don't notice my grey hair, my lazy laundry habits, or the million things a day I do that aren't quite right.

Thanks for that.

I fret about being an older mama to a new-ling.  Will you be embarrassed to have a mom that looks more like a grandma when you are a teenager?  Will my health hold up?  You have certainly inspired me to change my lifestyle.  I never imagined I would love doing something called "downward dog" or "baby cobra" regularly.  Who knows, maybe, even with all we've been through, I'll actually live longer just because of you.

You did luck out in a way.  I got all of my guinea-pig-experimentation out on the older kids.  Any parenting tactic that has made the cut in the last 18 years must work pretty well.  I don't care when you potty train, and you can pick your nose all you want (just don't eat it).  Also, I don't care what you grow up to be as long as you have integrity and are caring.  I think that rules out out most careers in organized crime or anything with "pole dancing" in the job description (no offense to all you pole dancers out there.  I'm sure you are lovely and very nimble.)

I thought the feeling might wear off, the feeling that you are a miracle child, but it hasn't.  There is a hallowed feeling when I am with you, and I wish everyone knew your story.  It's not the kind of thing you talk about in a store checkout line (though I have if the moment has felt right).  But it shows in your eyes, and anyone who knows you has felt your special spirit.

I love you, sweet girl.

I've found myself feeling afraid lately.  Afraid of offending people.  Nervous that what I may say here will cause some person some untold, unintended pain.  I find I'm running my words through so many filters my fingers hover over the keyboard, paralyzed.  If I air my many opinions on parenting or birth related issues, will I hurt the tender feelings of a mama who feels otherwise?  If I blast the airwaves with my political agenda, my homeschool ideas, my vaccine and western medicine criticisms, will I alienate a reader or two or ten? I've likely already offended the pole-dancers in the crowd.

The filter has gotten so big, and so clogged, I am experiencing writers block.  A big blocked filter.

Which brings me back to this angel girl.  There was a day I would have written odes and poetry of her lovey ways.  I would have gushed and mushed all about her.

But I am aware, these days more than ever, of women who have waited and wanted and held in their hearts a little cradle that has remained still empty.  Whether from loss of life or health, or loss of opportunity, their arms are empty.  

Then I think about authenticity.  How can any of us be our true selves if we worry about things in this way?  How, if we fear that living our lives fully may offend another, can we become the people we were meant to be?

I remember Francine once telling me that being our authentic selves helps others to find their authentic voice.  I know that when I meet someone who can move through the world gently, doing what they do well with power and grace, I feel so inspired.  I don't think it is all or nothing (though my thinking tends to go that way).  I don't believe that you must be abrasive or offensive in order to be your best and most real you.  And I don' think we must hide our candle under a bushel so that we don't offend the people around us that are using a lamp or a flashlight.

So I'm going to work on being okay with being me.
I hope I can do it gently, and not hurt others along the way.

It is what I would want for her.  

1 comment:

Elizabeth said...

Good heavens, Adam is 18??!?
I was recently thinking about something I heard about writing a memoir, "remember that you are the narrator, not the protagonist." I've been a bit blog-stuck in the past year or so, and so made that my mantra to try to feel my way back into blogging. It really is tricky given how polemic so many things seem to have become. Thanks for sharing this glimpse of your life - I think you found me through the Lost and Found when I was dealing with VBAC and pre-e stuff, and I never thought I'd connect across the ether with a Mormon artist/ mom-blogger but my life would have been the poorer for that. You are a lovely person and I enjoy keeping up with what's going on in your life!