Tears & Fears

I hesitate to write this post, but I also know that I've always chosen to be honest on this blog, through the moments of joy and of pain. And while everything holds true from my last post--because who wouldn't be smitten with our sweet girl?!--there are some realities facing me right now that are causing a great deal of anxiety, fear, and tears.

Today, I took Lily to school with me. We just went for an hour, just long enough for me to set up the classroom I haven't inhabited in over six months. And while there was an incredible sense of gratitude in watching my daughter play in a room I truly never believed she'd enter, there was also both a real and a metaphorical dichotomy going on. I found myself trying to balance rehanging pictures and restocking my desk with running across the room to pick Lily up or to sing to her for a moment, trying to race down the hall to get something from my office before she started to squeal too loudly, trying to--in short--be a mom and a teacher at the same time. Within just a few minutes, it became clear just how tenuous a tightrope I'll be walking as I return to work next week.

Yes, I "signed up" for all of this--for being a mom, for continuing to teach, for breastfeeding through at least her first year, for being on an opposite schedule from Jeff so we can avoid the astronomical cost of daycare. However, as a dear friend reminded me, signing up for it doesn't mean I'm not overwhelmed or anxious or questioning each step of the journey. And in moments like this one--moments when breastfeeding is suddenly quite difficult and I have no idea how to schedule pumping into my teaching day and I fear I'll never get a stack of papers graded in a timely fashion--it's easy to lose sight of reality.

Reality tells me everything will get done. Just like every tech week I ever did before a show, just like every mountain of Odyssey essays in the winter, just like every week of meal planning and buying and preparing, things get done. But, just now, just today, the trees are pretty thick, and there's no forest in sight.

So, I write this post because... Because I need to tell myself that being scared of this transition isn't something to be ashamed of. Because it's okay that I'm still breastfeeding not necessarily because I enjoy it but more because I'm grateful that I have the supply to save us the cost of formula. Because I can be smitten with the little girl napping in the next room while still dreading the thought of putting her to bed by myself most nights. Because I need to know--and I need other moms to know--that it's okay to be frustrated and scared and wondering how you got here even when this is the life you prayed for and dreamed of for so many distressing years.

These are neither the first nor the last tears I'll shed over transitions in our family--I know that. But, for me, they are significant today, so I'm sharing them with you.

Because it's all part of our journey.

Dear Lily: We're smitten with you.

Dear lil' Lil',

It's true--we're smitten. We greet pretty much every day by saying, "gosh, you're adorable!" and then delighting in your broad grin and sparkly giggle that you always offer as a response. Though we're still not quite sure how we got from these milestones a year ago to the ones I'm about to share, we are fairly certain that no parents have ever been as blessed or as head-over-heels in love as we are.

So, without further ado, may I offer just a few of the reasons we're so smitten?

You are so delighted by water.

When you were itty bitty, the bath was a battle, and your poor dad feared he'd never get to share his love of the water with you. With the arrival of summer, though, your attitude completely changed, and it's so much fun to watch you explore pools, bathtubs, and even your sippy cup!

You're such a person.

We're realizing that you've transformed from this helpless little creature who would nestle on our chests with feet that didn't even reach our bellybuttons into a little girl who loves to stand and bounce whenever given the chance. (And despite your vertically-challenged mom, you're sprouting into the 75% for height!)

You're always game for trying something new.

Much to your granddaddy's delight, your first equine encounter produced no tears, only curiosity. Watching you stretch out your hand first to meet Rocky, my childhood horse, then to grasp the horn of my saddle was just incredible. Your granddaddy is going to have a pony waiting for you in Connecticut by next summer, we're pretty sure!

Your messy face (almost) always makes the clean-up worth it.

You seem a lot less sure of cracked wheat cereal than you do of avocado, but that makes sense to us: your fierce independence means you'd far rather mash that squash into your mouth than have us spoon it in. Despite being so tiny in your high chair, you readily slide in for family dinner every night, much to our great joy.

You squeal at the sight of your kitties.

(And you've also apparently worked out some system of zone defense / quadrant restrictions with them on the bed.) They are so patient with and tolerant of you--Rosie lets you tug on her ears and even Guillie occasionally allows you to catch her tail. And when you're happily bouncing away in your Jumperoo, nothing makes you more delighted than catching sight of Ozzy streaking by.

Your smile is infectious.

We know we're more than a bit biased, but this one is universally agreed upon by friends, families, and strangers alike: nothing makes that sad-faced lady at the grocery store break out in a grin faster than your exuberant smile. There's nothing stingy about your joy--you just want to share it with the world!

You want to be just like us.

First, you wanted our water bottles, so we got you a pink sippy cup. Next, you went after our phones, so we let you slobber all over the cases. Lately, the best food seems to be the morsels on our plates. Yet, as frustrated as we may get pulling each object out of your (remarkably strong) grip, we take secret delight in watching you watch us and in knowing that we have the great privilege--and terrifying responsibility--of being your role models.

You make us "we three."

Our little love, our sweet and salty peanut, our pumpkin-a-tor, our sweet pea of joy: you have added to our lives in ways we always dreamed of and ones we never could have imagined. We are so blessed by you, so smitten with you, so in awe of you.

Thank you for allowing us to be your mom and dad.

With all our hearts,

The Bubs and the Beard