It’s raining babies around here this spring…babies everywhere and I must admit, it’s got me thinking. Or longing. Or maybe a little bit of both. A few friends are having babies, like BDN’s own Pattie at After The Couch and two of Mark’s grown daughters are both having babies this spring and summer. I’ve started shopping for little bits and bobs. Tiny socks to keep little birdie feet warm. Darling, soft cardigans knit by loving hands. Wee little hats, barely big enough to cover an orange. Sigh.
So would I go down that road again? No, even if I wanted to, I don’t think that I could. I’m 45 and my body could barely handle Madeline at the age of 33. Gestational diabetes, placenta previa, c-section..the difference in just the 5 years between my girls was huge and let me know in no uncertain terms that I was done.
My girls are stretching up and out, reaching for something besides me. Away from me. What the what? Who authorized this? Who cut the respective cords, because it sure wasn’t me. I adore who they are today, who they are coming into on their own, but how do you not miss the little diaper covered bums? The sticky fingers wound in your hair? My friend Karen over at Postcards From A Work In Progress put up a great post today and she was dead on. When your kids are little, you don’t ever see your life being anything else. Until all of a sudden..it is.
We are firmly entrenched in talk of boys, music, futures, make up, when it’s OK to start shaving legs. OMG, are you two even kidding me with this stuff? Go put on some OshKosh and watch some Semsame Street. Humor Mom. No? I didn’t think so, but it was worth a shot. I can’t imagine life without little ones, can’t imagine that that part of our lives are done. Even though Hal will always be at home with us, it won’t be the same as having them be kids.
I’m good at this parenting thing. I love it. I love brushing tangled knots out of silky, baby fine hair. The having a little body that’s all knees and elbows beating the hell out of me in bed. The pushing strong little bodies on a swing as they shriek and kick their legs in the exact opposite direction that they need to go to pump by themselves.
Bedtimes now entail nothing more than me telling them to turn of iPods and iPads and not to stay up too late as I shuffle off to bed. What used to be an hour of ONE more book, ONE more kiss, ONE more drink of water, is now 20 seconds and maybe a, “Hey Mom, did you put my outfit for tomorrow in the dryer?”.
So what’s the answer to the baby jones I’ve got? Adopt? Foster parent? Become The Crazy Cat Lady?
Omg, y’all. Is this like a midlife crisis or something? Should I be getting hair plugs and buying a convertible?