As a new parent, every time is a good time
“This is a good time,” I told an editor friend this week, after asking about how Genevieve was doing.
It’s true. It’s a good time. She’s almost nine months old. She babbles, spraying “dadadadada” and “mamamama” around whenever she’s in a harrowing situation, where the harrowing situations include getting stuck halfway under the couch and dropping the wooden spoon she waves violently while sitting in her kitchen high chair.
She crawls like a gazelle strides, blitzing from the center of the living room to the hallway in three seconds. When she doesn’t want to crawl, she pulls herself up and cruises the furniture. Deftly gliding along our IKEA shelving unit doubling as a TV stand, she stops to pull out cookbooks and turn on the Playstation 3 unit. Because she knows how to do that. Sometime earlier she noticed that if you put your finger at one place, the Playstation chirps and the light turns green. She figured that out.
She knows her toys are kept in the bins by the living room window, and she knows that if she reaches into the bins, she can grab anything she wants. So she does that, even after one attempt was so brazen that she fell into the bin completely.
She knows when we’re going outside, and man, she loves going outside. If I grab the keys she pumps her body up and down, increases her breathing and widens her eyes. Then she starts clapping. If I reach for my sunglasses and place them on my head, she shrieks delightfully. And if I grab the Ergobaby carrier and strap it on, she basically dances a jig. She loves being outside, probably because we made sure we went outside all the time during pregnancy and immediately after birth. We hiked with her in the womb. We traveled long distances until we couldn’t. We brought her outside after her first day home, and every day we go outside at least twice. Maybe three times.
She understands that the green frog plate means mealtime, so the moment I grab it is a mad dash to setting her in her high chair and putting the food in front of her. She grabs everything and shoves it down. Sometimes the food doesn’t always end up in her tummy, but she enjoys chicken, fish, broccoli, potatoes, squash, eggplant, beets, blueberries, peaches, green beans, bell peppers, watermelon and yogurt, among other foods. She drinks water from a straw. She doesn’t reject bottles anymore. She holds her own bottles — though we don’t force that all the time.
A friend gave us some toys recently, including a Winnie the Pooh jack-in-the-box. I’ll wind the box, causing “Pop Goes the Weasel” to play, and somehow the chiming notes are just enough to bring a tear to my eye. And the moment it reaches “Pop!” and Winnie emerges from inside the box, Genevieve brightens with an incredible smile and shriek. I loved Winnie the Pooh as a toddler, and seeing my daughter hit the moon at the sight of a smiling Winnie — his arms extended as if to say “hug me and hold me forever and don’t you dare let go” — makes me want to break down and cry every single time.
She sits and keeps herself upright during a bathtime that is now her and the tub, some water, bubbles and toys. There’s no more contraption to sit in. No more sink. This is big girl time, and she’s owning it. Sure she becomes frustrated when she can’t grab the foam block, and sure she still attempts to stand up and leave the tub, but seriously, that smile. I can’t get over the smile, and the way she crinkles her deep blue eyes, and the way she clasps her tiny hands together in a fit of happiness. How can we become so cruel and angry when we started so perfectly joyful?
Some mornings — and afternoons — I’m too exhausted to sit on the floor and scramble to keep Genevieve busy, because if there’s anything she can’t stand, it’s being still and inactive for more than four seconds. Yet I find myself sprawled on the floor, draping her small orange blanket over my face in a quick game of “Where’s daddy?” to pivot her attention away from grabbing some fuzz off the floor. It’ll take a second or two, but I’ll start hearing her hands and knees ambling over to me, her breathing increasing, her excitement growing. All she wants to do is swipe the blanket from my face and see my eyes and laugh at them. All I want to do is hold onto her forever, hold onto this forever, because it makes me remember that I’m always loved, I’m always needed, I’m always important in someone’s eyes.
Sarah has been traveling for work the last few days; these periods always stir up reflection about my greater purpose as a parent, since I’m intensely involved in every facet of Genevieve’s well-being and there’s little else to consider. Right now I’m the sole provider and comforter in her life — even if it’s for a short period without deep, lasting impact — so all of my moves with and around Genevieve will affect her for at least a passing moment, if not for longer. Responsibility is magnified.
The first time I watched Genevieve alone for an elongated period I worried about my importance to her and my incapability to aid her in both very tangible (food provider) and intangible roles (emotional comforter). Those worries have all but disintegrated in those five months; I can handle all of the tangible issues, sometimes effortlessly, and I now comprehend how I can negotiate my unique skills to fill the intangible roles when I’m the only present parent. This has happened because I’m more experienced, because Genevieve is older, developing and easier to understand, and because every challenge is thrown into space after just a millisecond of looking at her. She’s a beacon.
During the first night without Sarah, after dinner and before bathtime, Sarah called me for a video chat. She appeared on my phone’s screen and smiled at Genevieve. “Look! It’s Mommy!” I said to Genevieve. She pumped herself up and down, the way she does when it’s time to head outside. She smiled. She lit up.
Then she reached at Mommy and hit glass. She realized Mommy was not in the living room but in a hotel room 2,500 miles away, real only as an image in space. Instantly she scrunched her face, which turned red. She let out a sad, helpless shriek and began to tear up. Within 20 seconds Genevieve was fully bawling, shocked and sad that Mommy was here but not here at all. She missed her.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Sarah.
“That’s okay,” she replied. “I’m sorry for you!” She figured I now had a challenge on my hands, or maybe she thought I’d be sad that Genevieve wasn’t happy that I was there, or that she didn’t get sad when I left. Either way I didn’t feel troubled at all. I told Sarah it would be fine, and it was. I held Genevieve tight and calmed her, and within 20 more seconds she was crawling furiously toward me to swipe the blanket off my face.
An hour later Genevieve nestled in my arms, her eyes closed, her body warm in her pajamas. I rocked gently in the chair for a few minutes as I exhaled and thanked every being in this universe that she came into my life. This is a good time, indeed, just like all the others.
