When I look at my 13 month old, I realize how fast life is going to go from here on out. Time no longer makes sense. Just moments ago, it seems, I was cradling a blob of barely-conscious wiggles who basically pooped, ate and slept on repeat. Today, he’s a spunky “off-the-charts” tall toddler who loves to sing “Barbara Ann,” screams when he doesn’t get what he wants, and says “uh oh” ahead of any object he’s about to “accidentally” drop.
In 13 more months, my son will be 26 months, which is 2 years and some odd months, which is a whole other level of human. He will be so far removed from baby at that point, I likely won’t remember the daze of those first few months when I didn’t know up from down or left from right (well, I never knew left from right, but you get my point.)
Here I am — mom. Or “Adada” which seems to be my son’s name for me since he can’t make out a “mooooom” unless he’s very upset and then it’s “momomomomomommoom.” He still doesn’t sleep through the night and he is scared of things he shouldn’t be and perfectly fearless when he should be terrified. He scoots to the edge of the bed, rolls onto his stomach and slowly drops towards the floor until he can no longer hang on, then falls backwards in a choreographed “plop” and immediately crawls out of the room as fast as possible. He has too many toys and books and has his favorites. He crawls to Alexa and demands her to play Barbara Ann by saying “ba ba ba” and then, should we make it start, his smile lights up bright as can be, complimented by a sweet chuckle of pure happiness.
When we go outside, he dislikes the feeling of grass or sand or anything other than smooth cement — even though he doesn’t walk, he refuses to crawl on said textures and instead does squats, patiently waiting to be picked up. He is over his panda obsession and obsessed with dogs (though he thinks cats and pigs are also dogs) and excitedly says “daw, daw, daw” whenever a dog (or lookalike) is near. He says “up” if he wants you to hold him and “all done” if he’s done with something (even if he’s done with being done — babies are so darn literal.) And, even on rough days, there is nothing in the world that makes me feel like life has meaning the way that holding him makes me feel.
It’s still hard. So hard. So — I should be sleeping right now but my mind won’t quiet enough to focus so I need to stay up and get this work done at 2am hard. So I haven’t slept for more than 5 hours a night in I don’t remember how long hard. But it’s worth it because life is going to by in a blip and at least I’ll have this experience of loving and nurturing a person and hopefully that will be enough and the mushy story will hold up.
As a soon-to-be 36 year old I am feeling the onset of soon-to-be-40 and then soon-to-be 50 and then how short life truly is. If I was sad about getting older and the succinctness of life previously, I’m now further saddened by thinking about being an older mom and likely not being alive for my son as he gets older… when he’s my age, I’ll be 70 (or six feet under. Hopefully 70.)
The last year has aged me so aggressively that I may as well be 70 already. I feel worn, wrinkled, tired, and yet a newfound spark dances around in the pit of my stomach daily, a little fairy of meaning, the reward for taking a huge risk on becoming a mother, despite not trusting I would do the role justice, and it all being well worth it. In some ways, I’m as lost as I ever was, but it has become increasingly clear that having direction is overrated and having relentless stamina while running blindly ahead will get you through just about anything. And, as I’ve always known, the older I get the more I’m accepting that aging doesn’t actually entail growing up — even if you are responsible for keeping another human alive.
I’m trying to stop worrying so much and just enjoy it all before it’s gone. In the very few moments of stillness that exist in my life these days — namely, my 45 minute commute — I drown in nostalgia for life before time felt so damn limited. When days played over and over again without end. In routine the best find control and yet routine blurs time the fastest. The unpredictable, the spontaneous, the intensely irrational, the everything “guru” posts tell us not to do, is what drives a sledgehammer into time and lengthens a few more of our minutes so they hang just a bit longer before the next minute leaps in to take its place still all too soon.
I have no interest in routine — and maybe that’s my biggest flaw. But I want each day to be delightfully different and filled with newness and that richness of novelty, even though routine, to some extent, is necessary to survival as an adult human mom worker being.
But. I still let my heart skip a beat when driving home on the freeway that takes a bit longer, then opens up to rolling hills, then an exit which takes me under magical, overgrown trees and their shadows, to a new turnoff through backroads where for a brief moment I’m driving through the country, sort of, and I’m off on an adventure as the light from an almost-setting sun paints everything in its luscious purple-pink-yellow light.
And, when I return home, when I drive a few more miles back to reality, I park and walk up two flights of steps, I open the door to my brightly grinning child who is the only person in the world who would be so happy to see me — he doesn’t care that I’m awkward and clumsy and an imposter of everything I ought to be — and I feel the magic of the sunset a thousand times over in reaching out to hold him, in knowing that this is real and right, and feel grateful for finally having a purpose beyond myself, and an exit I never could have turned down if the stars hadn’t aligned, an adventure that will go fast, but nonetheless, that is still just beginning.
life with interest 