Like all mothers ever, I look at my child and think HOW can she be so big? When did she morph from a mushy baby to a walking, talking toddler? And why don’t I remember any of it?
Here’s a walk through my day, which illustrates the unfairness of motherhood. (Dramatic, much?)
A Little Story about Obama
I’m trying to teach her to say the President’s name – they don’t come much easier & more toddler-friendly than Obama! – and I asked here “Who’s the President?” and she says “Momma!” Maybe it’s bc I get to be the President in this story, but it was cute. (Just yesterday, she looked at a picture of Obama and said “Daddy!” She’s clearly very confused)
In the midst of my basking in the happiness & cuteness of this moment, she pulls this. She decides to “explore” what’s in her diaper. In this case? It was poopy. I didn’t witness the crime, but the aftermath was all mine. She pulls her dirty hand out and says “YUCKY” and runs to me, wipes it on my jeans. Yucky, indeed. And I think to myself, how did I get to be President one minute and have diaper smeared on me the next?
So, guess which story was more salient, more fresh in my mind (and nostrils)? With a good sense of humor, of course, the poop smear incident won’t leave me too emotionally scarred. It’s the big stuff though, the gross disruptions and stressful shit-smeared moments that seem to engulf the day sometimes. This just might be applicable to the whole of child-rearing. I want to remember the sweet little words and silly dancing and hugs too. They’re way funner than the other stuff, which I’ll never forget either.
Then I get to chiding myself for not keeping better track of these little cutenesses. Her vocab and skill set changes like every hour and I LOVE watching it and being in awe of the next thing, but at the same time, you never realize what’s leaving you. Like, how she used to say her name was “Go-go”, now it’s “Mah-go”, and someday it’ll be “Margo.” And it’ll be great – because yay! No speech therapy! – but it’ll be sad too because where’s your cute toddler Boston accent?
So, I am resolving to write about a little cute thing she does once a week. A thing that is not a big crazy smearing-crap-on-me story that will have legs of its own and not need documented (already firmly in the McQuiggan oral history, I assure you), but a thing that I don’t want to forget and if I don’t write it down I probably will.
I just hope she can do something cute this week. 😉