Christmas

Having babies is difficult and women seem so often to feel bad about just how it turned out. They did or did not want an epidural, they planned or did not plan on a c-section, they were or were not going to breastfeed. Maybe they get to make the decision, maybe it gets made for them, but after living with it for awhile, they find themselves wishing something different.

Maybe it's a little like Christmas, you know? Where you think *this* year you'll have the perfect one, and you'll get the right tree and get it up weeks in advance and actually get your holiday cards out on time and you'll bake four different kinds of cookies and make time to watch all your favorite specials and you'll have your shopping done two weeks ahead of time and everything wrapped, and no matter how you plan, you end up on Christmas Eve standing in the line at the store, or trying to fit in three holiday movies before bed, or just wrapping presents at midnight on Christmas Eve and wondering exactly where you went wrong and vowing that you'll do it different next time. And you will. But you still won't get it all done just the way you'd envisioned.

At the same time, I've realized lately that this is part of the poignancy of babies, part of what makes all mothers nostalgic and tender in the presence of someone else's new baby - you can't really go back. That's a hard truth to grasp in life, especially in the world we live in. You didn't have the wedding you wanted? Spend a mint and renew your vows! You were distracted during a concert? Buy another ticket and go again! You hated being on the road over the holidays? Next year, stay home and do it up however you like! But children are different. They're like the proverbial river - you never interact with the same child twice and there's something sad and lost about that. I can never have you at three months or six months or nine months again. Those yous are gone and there are days that I break down and cry because I feel like I missed them, like I should have been watching constantly, like I was cheated out of so much by postpartum psychosis.

I have to tell you - I would put my life on a loop if I could. I would do everything over again, even the terrible parts because they lead me to you, if I could, just to keep being your mother for as long as I possibly could. And while I can't go back, I try to concentrate on looking forward - there are so many yous for me to know yet and I'm excited for all of them, even the ones that won't be my favorites. There's the you with your first skinned knee and the you with your first report card and the you with your first sleepover and the you turning one and two and three and four.... When I was pregnant, I couldn't wait to meet you, to know who you are, to see what you'd look like, but I've since realized that I will never be done knowing who you are, never done knowing what you look like, and that's an amazing thing. You're Christmas every day, with a whole new tree and a whole new set of gifts and a whole new set of joys.

I read somewhere once that there is nothing so precious and amazing and awe-inspiring as something on the verge of becoming - becoming something else, something bigger, something more - and that, my little person, is you: constantly on the verge, constantly surprising me, constantly emerging, constantly in metamorphosis from two cells to the person you'll be at the end of your life. It's all I can do not to stare in wonder at you every moment.

Broken

A friend told me recently that you broke me, but in the best way possible. Which you did. After years of stasis, I now find myself in a near-constant state of evolving and adapting. Things that would have made me tense or made me break down in tears at other times in my life now make me smile or just sit down and laugh. You spill Cheerios, wriggle around in poo, or whack me in the face with a toy, and often, my only response is amusement. It warms my heart to see how gleefully you go through life, unaware of the need to show caution or restraint or moderation. I used to know how to do that too, I realize, and somewhere along the way, I forgot a little bit more than I intended.

In breaking me, you also broke so much of what restrained me - so many fears and anxieties that simply don't fit with who you are and what you need from me. You broke my heart too, and you break it every day, when you wail with abandon, when your face crumbles like an empty paper bag, when you clutch your scarf with anticipation of being picked up, when you concentrate so hard on picking up something small. I see you wanting and know that you have a lifetime of wanting ahead, a lifetime of things I can't possibly and shouldn't even consider doing for you. It seems to do me good somehow, though. Perhaps I'm learning that hearts break and get put back together all the time, that this morning's tragedy is quickly forgotten, that a good nap can erase a bad night, that a smile covers up so many frustrations. Being broken is freeing - you can put yourself back together however you like.