Two years ago, I was sitting up in bed, counting contractions and waiting through the interminable hold recordings on the Women’s Health Division phone line. I wasn’t really sure how quickly things were happening, so I just watched the minute hand on my watch and tried to remember the peaks and valleys chart from the childbirth class. (I couldn’t remember if I was supposed to time from the start of a contraction to the start of the next contraction or merely the period in between.)
It amazes me that, two years ago, I was handed a small bundle that fit in the crook of my arm, and now, I have a toddler who can’t be contained, but who now freely gives hugs on request (when she feels like it). I don’t have the words to do it justice. I vividly remember the little face that peered up at me on that hospital bed. I remember my fascination with the whole process. I remember the bow that the nurse made on her little hat. (She looked like Mamie from Gone with The Wind, done in miniature)
I remember Tom’s face. I’d never seen him look like that before. And that’s another thing I don’t have words for. Thank God for cameras.
Maybe all parents feel this way, but I am in awe of my child. She is just so smart. She catches on to things so quickly. I’ve always loved seeing children learn—that moment when something finally clicks and they just get it, (If I flip this switch, the light turns on. Pink means all the things that look like that (flamingoes, and tutus, and PINK!)) but it’s so much more intense when it’s my child. I derive a lot of joy from seeing her learn.
But there’s also a lot of fear. Fear that I’m doing it wrong. Fear that something I neglect to do will limit her potential. Fear that something I do will teach her to be angry like her mama. She is so much like me. And here’s the interesting thing—she’s like me now, not like me as a child. She is independent and strong-willed. I watch her at school, and she genuinely doesn’t care what the other kids are doing, she’s just doing her own thing, and if it overlaps, that’s fine, but if not, she’s going to continue doing her own thing. I was the exact opposite as a child. I was into everything, into everyone’s business, often to the point of being annoying.
I watched the new Muppet Movie with Tom, and I walked out of the theatre wiping away tears. We live in a very cynical world. And though I often call it pragmatism or practicality, I’m a cynic. I knew it when Conan made his goodbye speech to NBC, and I knew it when I walked out of that theatre. And I’m terrified that Tom and I will accidentally infect our baby girl with that negativity. We mock everything. We always have. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism. And, honestly, our practicality is what is directly responsible for our level of success and comfortability in our lives. We’re young, and we’re doing well. We both have good jobs, and we’re both on a career path to have much better jobs in not much time. And maybe we don’t love those jobs, but we certainly love the stability they provide.
But watching that movie, a movie about dreams and making them come true (on whatever scale possible)—a movie made by dreamers influenced in their childhoods by another dreamer who made the Muppets come alive—watching that movie made me question myself. What doors did I close by taking the safe path to a steady job on a stable career path?
What doors do I risk closing for my little girl if I push her in the same direction?
Tomorrow, my baby turns 2. Tonight, at 12:04 am, I will most likely be in my bed, asleep, and there will be nothing to mark the anniversary of the most significant event in my life so far.
I know I said that I don’t have the words for this, and it’s true, as I’ve written this much and not yet hit upon my point. I love her so much. Out of that love comes a desire for everything to be the absolute best that I can get for her. When she puts on her tutu and lifts her little leg behind her like the ballerinas she saw on the TV, I can see her on a stage, dazzling audiences. When she rode the pony, I could see her taking care of a horse of her own. She is a blank canvas, and I want her to write anything on that canvas that her heart might desire. So, I wait, and I watch, waiting for something to become her passion, and trying to figure out how I can facilitate her dreams.
But no matter what her dreams are, the thing I want the most for her is happiness. I want her to be happy. I want her to have hope. I want for her to never be angry at the world. That may not be possible. There are so many things to be angry about. When I look at my baby, I see her joy. The world is full of wonders for her right now. And my birthday wish for her is that she never loses that.
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