Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Love Letter To My Children

Listening to the hubby rock out on “Hotel California” in the living room with accompaniment from Laura on the tambourine (read: her rattle).

God, I adore her. I adore both of my kids. I worried when we decided to have another baby because I thought I could never love anyone else as much as I loved my son. Or worse, I figured that to make up for the love I’d be giving her, I’d have to love him less. Those of you with more than one kid will know this is poppycock. You do love them both. It is different, though, and I don’t think it’s just because they are of different gender.

I feel very fortunate that I had the lightning-bolt-love-at-first-sight with both of my kids. I know it’s pretty common for people to not attach to their kids emotionally for a while, feeling instead like their house has been invaded by an insistent alien who wants nothing but food, clean diapers and sleep, pretty much in that order. While I have been a bit vexed over these things, as well as the lack of sleep, social life and ability to talk about anything non-baby (or so people seem to think!), I have still held to the wonder of being steward to such fascinating wards.

I’ve tried really hard to not make my son a ‘Momma’s Boy.’ He’s not clingy at all, but he definitely has a connection with me. He still cuddles with me on the couch in the mornings when we’re not running full steam ahead, trying to get dressed and ready for school. I hold him, big grasshopper legs tucked up and cow-licked head cuddled up to my cheek. He tells me his secrets, his hopes and his dreams. When he’s had a bad day, he wants me to hold him and make him feel better. He delights in being goofy, dancing and making voices for as long as it takes to make his audience break into laughter, which is not very long, as it tends to happen.

The girl, on the other hand, is still developing. She’s so full of joy, it’s almost too much to take. Everyone—everyone—who deals with her on a regular basis comments on how easy going she is. She’s always smiling, always laughing and always watching the world around her. She delights in catching your eye and throwing you a toothless grin so all encompassing it takes your breath away. She is joy. I love watching her experience new things. When she ‘reads’ a book, she looks at the pages in wonder, pat-pat-pats them as if surprised that there are babies and puppies in there!, and very slyly brings the board pages up to her mouth for a quick taste. While she’s got your hand that’s holding the book up near her mouth, she’ll sneak a quick slobber test on it to see if your taste has changed. After each new activity, she’ll catch your eye to see if you saw her do it and then she’ll giggle like a mad child.

My children are different, my love for them different, but neither is better or worse. Neither is more important. They both delight my senses and make my head spin in dazed Mommy Love.

I always swore I wouldn’t be one of “those moms” who never shut up about their kids. I knew that no one else would give a crap about my kids; that there was no point  telling people over and over and over about them because who cared? I’m ashamed to admit, though, that I get it now. I know why people talk so much about their kids. Unfortunately, though, now everyone has to listen to me talk ad nauseum about them because I can talk for days and days, far longer than anyone—even their grandparents—would ever want to hear.

When I see my children, I’m happy.

I’m tired. I’m sore. I wish I had money and time to go to the gym, both having been hijacked by little people who have the most adorable ways about them. I’d love to have a social life, go see friends, see a movie. Heck, I’d love to be able to sit around and just read if I wanted to, no matter whether it’s nap time or not. Oh, and I’d love to be able to sleep later than 7:30 on the weekend (and that’s on a good day…).

But I wouldn't trade the experiences Robert and I have had over the past 6 years for anything in the world.

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