Too fast
They all said it would happen, and I did not believe.
How could it “go by too fast” when I was still waking up in the middle of the night, while I was changing diapers and wiping noses, and running from kinder gym to guardian swim class with no time to myself. The thankless yet constant demands of babyhood and toddlerhood which required vigilance and attention in perpetuity, seemed like they would never end, and I could not wait to be done with the “baby years.” Those days were so long.
But the years, the years were so fast. So fast, that when I think back to your first steps, I struggle to remember. So fast, that baby pictures of you are a little person I barely recognize anymore. Your language skills are so intricate and elaborate, it’s hard to believe that just a short 3 years ago, your word for carrot was “ah-ah-ah.”
I know there was a time when you wanted nothing to be in my arms, but these days, that time is reserved for when your sleepy or tired because the rest of your days are filled with running and playing and jumping. So fast. So fast that tonight as I ponder your first day of school this week, I’m regretting wishing any of those days would end at all.
On the eve of your new adventure, your foray into the real world, I wish I could just stop time.
I thought of all the times I held your hand and waved a smile of encouragement every time you succeeded. The times I gently guided you when you needed a little extra help, or witnessed your latest discovery as you would rush over and jump into my lap to show me.
The last four years of my life have been a roller coaster of bliss and absolute chaos. Between you and your sister, I more often then not felt like I was barely holding my head above water.
Still I don’t regret one single second.
You had to come first. As a family we would struggle with my limited income as I built a business that would allow me to work from home, but you would thrive. Given the opportunity to explore your world at your pace, you took it all in.
my first mother’s day gift from you
The cautious caterpillar you were emerged a social butterfly.
You engaged in the world in ways that were beyond my comprehension and my comfort level, and still I followed your lead. You were given independence when you asked for it, and I was there for a reassuring hug when your confidence faltered.
I’ll always remember how my arms were a safe place for you to regain your footing when you would stumble socially. “I love you maman,” you would say as you bravely dismissed the rejection of older kids who didn’t have the time to talk to a toddler. And then you would run off to play again.
It wasn’t always playdates and walks to the park. The days were sometimes long, and I was sometimes exhausted.
Giving up my career meant losing a little bit of myself – the part of myself that I had cultivated my whole adult life. It meant walking away from the only thing I had known as an adult. That was hard.
It also meant a new identity for me, one as a mother. Was I “mom” material? I never used to think so.
Now, there was this new part of me, one that wasn’t even physically attached to me but walked around outside my own body. One whose absence filled my heart with a dull ache. It’s true what they say that having a child is like having your heart walk around outside of your body.
I definitely doubted my ability to be a good parent. I knew it would be hard.
But what I couldn’t possibly know was all the joy. From the moment I first held you in the hospital until now, there has been so much joy. You ask nothing of us, and most of the time, we don’t have a lot to give, at least not in terms of physical goods.
And yet, everything we have to give you take with an open heart.
All the times when you would come up and give me a kiss for no reason at all, my heart could just burst. Joy.
I dress you in second hand clothes, and you still found your favourites in the piles of previously loved outfits. You have about one quarter of the toys that I’ve seen in other kids’ houses, but that doesn’t bother you either. You love and play and give without reservation, and I am the lucky recipient of much of your affection.
I watch you grow and try to give back to you all that you have given me. I make sure you have the tools to learn the things that interest you and the help you need to find your own path.
I know that one day soon, you’ll stop asking your dad to take you outside to look for crickets, and you’ll stop asking me to lay with you while you drift off to sleep. I know the days that you look at me with amazement are numbered.
You will go off to school and there will be people there who are hipper than me, smarter than me and who will enthrall you in ways that I could not—at least that is what I hope for you. I wish you all the best teachers who challenge you and test you and show you things that I could never. Not because I’m uneducated or uninteresting but because new people bring different perspectives and offer fresh views that you won’t experience at home. And that is amazing. I’m not arrogant enough to think I should be your only teacher. My knowledge is limited by my experience. You have interests that aren’t always my interests and other people can teach you things that are beyond my scope and comprehension.
So as you board the bus for the first time, I will smile bravely because I will know how much you need to see me smile back at you. But as I walk home, you can be sure that I will shed a few tears. A bittersweet mixture of sadness, joy, pride and excitement for you will surely overwhelm me. So don’t look back little one because I need you to think that I’m just as brave as you are on this day. I want nothing but the most confident foot forward for you as you go out into the world and show them how special you are.
And I will wait for you, at home to hear all about your adventures, as we cuddle together, because I know it goes by too fast.
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