Monday, December 5, 2011
I now realize the baby years were pretty cute, and not as greasy and chunk-filled as I remembered.
Parents of REALLY young children,
It's gonna take a while, but in 5+ years, you are going to find something like this, and it is going to break your heart a little. Or at least soften it up the next time you are trying to work through homework and the new (terrible) system for teaching math. I have accepted that G is getting older--it's hard not to when the big teeth are CLEARLY winning the battle for dominance of her face--but the ages of 5 and 6 (almost 7) seem so young. Except that it's now painfully obvious, they are not.
Mike got a new computer, and somehow, MAGICALLY, found these videos I've never seen before in my life. Now I remember why people (total strangers even) seem to be so fond of twins; for a period of six months or so, they were our own little zhu-zhu pets, crawling all over the place and accumulating dog hair like swiffers--and it was hella cute. Though at the time, it just felt like a whole lot more vomiting and crying and constantly hiding knives and permanent markers. But when I see it now? I just want to squeeze them. Or rock them to sleep, which I NEVER did, because I read somewhere that it would give them brain damage. Parents of really young kids: schedules are important, but don't fall for that propoganda, or you'll be growing an organic beet farm before you know it. I digress, but my point was that I see that life we had and those babies and I just want to hold them tight. And I don't remember that being the overarching theme of my mothering style back in 2006, but also I was pregnant and THAT BABY almost got his head out of the birth canal (9 weeks early) before I even realized it, so to say that I was overworked is a drastic understatement regarding my mental health AND my pelvic floor.
Speaking of THAT BABY (also known as Little J): Amidst these videos, we also found, NO JOKE, live footage of my uterus OUTSIDE my body! Gross, but AWE-SOME. But GROSSSSS. I thought that only existed as a photograph, but turns out we have our own little bootleg c-section video, shot in the style of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I would show it, if I didn't think it would make half of you vomit, and if what you would be looking at wasn't .3 inches away from my actual crotch. This video also includes the process and the countdown necessary to lift my HUGE, limp body onto the operating table--which is also known as the moment I lost all of my dignity and self-esteem (and it was kindly shot, in it's entirety, by my loving husband). In the event that I become rich and famous, and my head quadruples in size, Mike will, in all likelihood, use it to remind me that it was once necessary to hoist my body in a manner that GREATLY resembles the technique used to un-beach whales.
Over the past few days, I have literally relived bits of the life I obviously missed, the first time around--and the when I saw this video, I literally cried at the sound of G's voice. Her tiny, baby voice. Honestly, I didn't even realize it had changed over the years, until I heard it here. She has always been my oldest, but you guys, she was SO SMALL! I didn't see that then, because in relation to the twin terrors, she was so mature, so composed, so EASY. And I'm not really a baby person, so I always sort of thought those old ladies who told me I would want those baby years back were full of crap--because at the time, I was looking forward to the day I could take my daughter to Paris, and NOT that day's challenge of keeping her from licking everything at face-level in the grocery store. But I get it now. I have a Paris-aged daughter and she doesn't lick things with wild abandon anymore, but she is more wise, more guarded, more independent, less needy--which I suppose was always the goal, but it FEELS different, and a little sadder than you think it will, back in the days of leaky sippy cups and diapers. She is awesome--but her 3-year-old self was too, and I didn't even realize that I miss her.
What I guess I'm saying, is hang in there. When that milk cup spills for the seventh time today or you find ants eating the candy your toddler has hidden in their bed (3 months ago), and you think you are missing a CRUCIAL piece of emotional DNA that makes it possible to love this crap--just know it will come. Around the time it becomes necessary to have the sex talk, you will be WISHING for the days of public temper tantrumming and Elmo toys with faulty wiring.