Blog a la Cart

My Sunny,

You really are just that. Our sunshine.

You wouldn’t nap today. You lay shrieking and babbling and stomping and thumping and playing in your crib. I came in to encourage you to close your eyes and rest, and you asked, “Mommy rock Sunny?”

How could I resist such a request?

I scooped you into my arms, blanket in tow, and we retreated to the rocking chair. Typically, your head is slung over my shoulder, but today I cradled you like I did when you were once small enough to fit comfortably within the two crooks of my elbows. Your legs dangled across my lap, your head pressed against my chest with the blanket perched atop your head like Mary’s veil. You sat peacefully, those blueberry eyes gazing right into mine, and then you’d break the biggest smile and nuzzle my nose and laugh with much delight at your own silly antics.

Moments like that make every sleepless night, every gray hair from your newly learned tantrums and crying fits, every turd-infested bath time, every food covered floor, totally and completely and irrevocably worthwhile.

We went on our first walk since the winter weather descended upon New England. It was slushy, and riddled with puddles and the ugly, dingy brown that comes with melting snow, but that 50 degrees and the beams of sunlight creeping through the clouds brought you such comfort. You sat contentedly in your stroller soaking in the warmth of the air. It was though you too experienced the inner joy and anticipation of the breaking winter months and glimpses of sunnier days to come.

Not surprisingly, this month you are more of an independent kid than ever before. It’s been a month of drawing, and using the washcloth to scrub yourself down in the tub, and brushing your own teeth, and feeding the dogs, and adeptly using your fork and spoon, and reading your books, and playing make believe with your stuffed animals, and warming up to the notion of a life sans diapers, and finding the language to describe these actions and make requests to perform each one. It’s meant that there have been far more tears of disappointment and frustration when your demands are not accommodated by mommy or daddy, but I guess that’s part of becoming aware of your own autonomy. The sad reality of this independence is that you are not yet old enough to completely function without the help of your parents.

I know it’s infuriating to not get your way 24/7. Welcome to Life 101, kid. Just wait until you’re a big sister.

Despite all the times when I’ve found myself totally caught off guard by your grown up looks and facial expressions, the way you hold your crayons and the way you tuck your Lavender in for night night, the awareness in your eyes and the thoughtfulness in the tilt of your head, I also catch glimpses of my precious infant that I cradled not so long ago.

When your hair is hidden under your hat, or I have you swaddled in a towel, or in the dim light of the early morning while comforting you when sick, I see the outlines and profile of that sweet baby girl that changed my life 21 months ago. And my throat burns with nostalgia.

While sick, Daddy pulled you into our bed and you screamed and cried when I tried to wrap you in my arms. You wanted your Daddy. And I get it. Your Daddy is your most favorite person on Planet Earth right now. He’s the person that spends the most time with you, and because of this, you trust him and have a comfort with him that is rivaled by no one. While it can sting, I get it. And know that this is a consequence of my working. Sometimes, even when I’m the one already at your service, you want Daddy’s help. You reach out of my arms for him. And you cry out for him in the middle of the night.

However, that night that you were sick, and you screamed for Daddy over Mommy, Daddy lay you down on his chest to quell your stress, and once you’d settled down, you reached out and grabbed my index finger, and you held on as you drifted off to sleep.

That was just the reminder that Mommy needed.

We are forever connected, my love. Whether through my index finger, or those months that I carried you with me, or the hours that add up to days that we spent connected through your need for nourishment and my maternal love, we are connected. And I will always always always be but an index finger away.

Happy 21 Months.

143 Mama