Christmas Eve was a day of perpetual mishaps. The best laid plans were best laid to rest…because chaos reigned supreme.
The older kids were at Grandma’s and it was time to rendezvous with my parents to bring them home. And so my little one hour jaunt turned into Gilligan’s three hour tour. The baby and I set off and not fifteen minutes into my journey, I heard a strange clicking and within seconds a loud bang erupted from under the car and the front tire on my Xterra exploded off the rim.
My car shuddered ominously, which happens when you are traveling at 75 mph, and so, I prayed, wailed and held on for dear life. Fortunately, I managed to pull over, traffic rushing by me on the toll road, and rolled into a small inlet off the side of the road. All this happened as I was “multi-tasking” on my cell phone to my husband who heard the whole fiasco on speaker-phone.
Ever the Eagle Scout, my husband told me to sit tight and he would be there shortly. Thirty minutes later, he pulled up. We moved the baby into his car, he pulled out the jack, and off I set again to bring back our kids from Grandma’s.
After giving him a big kiss, I left my husband on the side of the road changing the tire. Only fifteen minutes later, we were diverted off the toll road because of mud slide damage from the recent storms. After a thirty minute alternate route, we finally got back on track.
Then the crying started. I had left the baby’s bottle at home in my haste to pick up the kids, and baby was hungry. Already an hour late for the pick-up, I had no time to stop for food, so in my best soothing voice I kept repeating, over and over, “Just a few more minutes baby. “
Then the next freeway closure hit from storm damage, and once again we were re-routed for another thirty minute detour.
As we pulled up to meet my father, two hours late for our pick-up, I pulled a hysterical baby out the car. On the verge of tears myself, my dad rushed us over to Chili’s for some R & R. As I quickly made the baby a bottle, sad little sobs erupted and her body shook with frustration.
As I handed the baby a makeshift bottle, she leaned back in my arms, looked deep into my eyes and said “Thank You.”
This is my eleven month old baby. An exhausted, starving baby who had endured suffering for the first time in her life, and her response when finally fed was to say, “Thank You.”
She didn’t hit me, turn away in anger, refuse to eat, or play passive aggressive baby. She simply took the food and thanked me.
I reflected on the last time, or any time for that matter, that I had thanked God for the circumstances in my life that tested my spirit and lead to patient endurance. Just thanked him for the character defining moments I hate because I am forced to grow, despite my unwillingness to change.
My baby inherently knows what I often forget…to have a childlike trust in God, a simple dependence, and a thankful heart.
Then the little children were brought to Jesus for him to place his hands on them and pray for them. But the disciples rebuked those who brought them. Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them, the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”
“I don’t want to grow up, because baby if I did…I wouldn’t be a Toy’s R Us kid!”
My nine-year old daughter chimed in to the commercial jingle while shaking her hips with gusto. I smiled at her in agreement.
“Being a kid is pretty great, isn’t it?” I asked her.
“Yep mom and my favorite part is that I don’t have to go to work every day,” she replied. “Some people hate their jobs.”
Her response took me by surprise. I could hear echo’s of her father’s voice complaining about his job through her little statement. My ex-husband hasn’t loved his on-again, off-again profession in about ten years. It’s amazing how perceptive children are.
I quietly acknowledged the work comment and then suggested we focus on finding her a job she adores, so that work would be a blessing and not a curse.
“I want to be an actress mommy,” my daughter said.
I nodded in approval, thrilled that she has moved on from professional cheerleader to actress.
“Mommy, what did you want to be when you were little?” my daughter inquired.
My eyes filled with tears as I thought about her innocent little question.
“Well honey, I wanted to be a writer,” I said passionately. “I wanted to tell stories and entertain other people the way my books carried me through dark days. I also wanted to read and get paid for it. Read and write for a living… all day, every day, forever and ever!”
She gave me a quizzical look, slightly concerned at my over-dramatic response to her simple question.
“Mommy, you are a writer. You just took a long time to figure it out.”
Off she skipped, leaving me to process the ramifications of her statement.
How is it that thirty-eight years slipped through my fingers before I finally pursued my childhood dream of writing? I don’t remember saying as a child, “When I grow up I want to play it safe! Minimize risk and avoid failure at all costs.”
And yet that’s exactly what I have done and what I see so many of my friends do. We bury our dreams, escape into destructive coping mechanisms, and little by little lose the fiery spirit God gave us each one of us to uniquely live out loud.
Isn’t this really the essence of a mid-life crisis? We simply forget our identity and think hot sex or a Porsche will make the aching hole vanish.
So, when I grow up, hopefully before I turn 40 (I have about 18 months to go), I want to be bold like my daughter. Reclaim my courageous spirit beaten down by years of life, and like a little child, have faith that with God all things are possible.
Oh yeah…and I want to write, read books and tell stories, every day, forever and ever.
It seems like it always happens this time of year, fall burn-out sets in. Not just general weariness, but pure debilitating fatigue that has tenuous layers of emotional, spiritual and physical exhaustion. If you scratch the surface, of a parent or child in this state, you just might get more than you bargained for. Raw emotions lurk underneath the realm of the over achievers façade.
It finally dawned on me last week at the mall just how spent I was. The sky was dumping rain and my family was ecstatic. Wet fields meant a reprieve from the kids’ grueling sports schedule. So after almost five hours at church, we headed off for some much-needed sustenance and a little retail therapy…my older daughter’s love language. After pigging out at Ruby’s, my daughter begged to go to Justice for girls, a shop geared for hip tweens and enabling mothers.
So in we trooped to Justice; the baby sleeping in her stroller, my daughter shrieking at the totally cute jeggings, my son running off to Tilly’s and my husband, well…I don’t actually remember where he went. And that’s when I saw it, a music video playing on one of the ten screens placed around the store appealing to the ADHD crowd featuring Taylor Swift. I should have walked away, knowing how utterly prone I was to an emotional hijacking, but I fell for the romance and escape of it all. And so, in my highly fragile state, I was sucked in to Taylor’s compelling story-telling lyrics.
Alas, it was a woeful tale of a child abandoned by her father, and than growing up scared that her own husband would repeat the abandonment of her youth. So there I stood in Justice, a cacophony of mall buzz all around me, and I lost it. Tears began to pour down my face, big gulpy sobs for poor little Taylor’s heart, and I felt a deep well of emotion erupt from my soul. For a moment, the world stopped and I just reveled in the release.
This is what fall burn-out does. It takes high functioning adults, exhausted from work, kids, and sport’s playoffs and on and on… and turns them to mush, in places like Justice, no less. I realized this was a red-light symptom indicating that my cup might be overrunning with too many blessings and leading to detrimental burn-out, not just the tiredness that makes me long for summer and more languid days. So, I added up all the things we are involved in right now as a family. Then I looked long and hard at the list and did a little reflecting.
Pastoral ministry, running a church, leading 2 Rooted groups, teaching 2 bible studies, a career in tech sales, freelance writing, 2 online magazines, 1 blog, 2 acting classes, fall baseball, cheerleading, Mini Pearls(kids cancer research), Jr. High youth group, commuting 2 hours a day, 3 kids(1 of them a teething baby), no sleep, attempted exercise, running a women’s ministry, school, homework, a football team heading for the West Coast Conference, fantasy football commissioner, and oh yes…another fantasy team, friends, kids friends, family obligations, cheer team mom, little scholar football rep, football chain volunteer, laundry, cooking, cleaning, and oh yeah…trying to remain spiritual, read the Bible, pray, and be blessed to be a blessing.
Just my schedule alone is something like 140 hours a week. That leaves me with an average of about 4 hours of sleep a night. Quite frankly, I’m surprised I haven’t lost it at the Grocery Store or maybe even driven my car into the grocery store.
What the hell am I thinking?
The scary part is that I am pretty sure I am not alone in my race to accomplish, achieve, and appear busy. All of my friends are overwhelmed too. Sometimes I feel guilty for watching TV, annoyed at my husband when he takes time out to play, and frustrated that I don’t have more time to accomplish another 400 items. Sounds a little more like Martha than Mary, and that makes me sad because I want to be more like Mary. But, in all reality, we live in a Martha world and sitting on the floor like Mary at Jesus’ feet is counter-cultural. It takes an inordinate effort to swim against the current of identity defined by productivity.
What is this psychotic expectation of achievement that we have all bought into? I thought I could confidently say that I found my meaning and significance in Christ, but if I am honest, my agenda belies my statement of faith. Rest doesn’t feel like rest anymore, it’s more a catatonic expression of paralysis. Too tired to move, too tired to talk, we zone out and veg.
I think it’s time to stop the madness and climb off the hamster wheel. The hard part is figuring out how not to get thrown off the wheel. The world sucks you in and then spits you back out. Oh, but my inner hamster both loves and hates the wheel. While I want to jump off it’s also scary to think of not running so fast.
There’s an old saying that comes to mind…if the devil can’t make you sin, then he’ll make you busy.
So busy, that I imagine he has a field day with us when our defenses are down.
Last night my car broke down. Not that it’s ever convenient to have car problems, but I was parked behind a high school, deep in an isolated canyon with nothing but tarantulas and mountain lions around for miles. My son was one of the last kids off the football field after a late practice and as he hopped in, I heard a clicking sound instead of the engine coming to life. It sounded like a dead battery.
Fortunately, one of the mom’s also exiting saw my waving hand and stopped. She sent her husband home for the jumper cables and we hung out in the cold night, with growling stomachs, kids running around and the baby howling along with the coyotes for a bottle. Shockingly, a few last stragglers walked by and observed our little woebegone party-two women, three children and a baby standing around a car with the hood open, obviously in distress, and not one of them stopped or asked if we needed help.
It’s a story told all too often in our society… of people passing by and not heeding the call of those in distress. Now obviously we weren’t in imminent danger, and we did not ask for help, but the other mom seemed pretty indignant that we were ignored.
I would suggest that their lack of concern is more normal than not, and I am generally more surprised when people do offer assistance. Heroic acts these days are few and far between, and when they do occur, somebody probably has a video to capture it for YouTube. Because, when nobody else is looking, when the credits don’t roll, it’s just too easy to turn our eyes away and pretend not to notice. Ignorance is bliss right?
The Darwinist mentality seems to have pervaded our culture so deeply that survival of the fittest means we overlook the ageing, disabled and stranded. What this reveals about our society is a startling lack of compassion and an indication that somewhere along the way we have learned to care more for ourselves than for the greater good.
I know that if I am honest, my own heart is inherently selfish and my gut reaction is rarely to stop what I am doing, surrender my agenda, and dive into the need at hand. More often, I feel a tug in my spirit, choose to heed or ignore the nudge, and then usually, but not always, try to help.
When I look at the ministry of Jesus, I am struck by how the interruptions of need seemed to define his entire ministry. He did more healing, teaching and revelation in the unplanned moments than any organized preaching. His agenda seemed to incorporate the unplanned and invite the messy in.
And so, I am challenged to create space in my life for the unexpected, the things I can’t put in my agenda but may define my identity far more than my busy schedule.
The journey of compassion is the road less traveled. It whispers to look beyond ourselves and glimpse that which is sacred. It loves our neighbor simply for loves sake.
That’s the message I want to teach my kids. It’s the banner I want to wear across my own heart. To never be so busy that I can’t stop, engage in humanity, and get my hands a little bit dirty.
But if your car breaks down…my help might consist of a little company and a cell phone. Mechanics are just not my gift!
A few days ago, I had a disturbing incident while herding kittens across the mall parking lot. Ok, maybe they were cheerleaders…but it felt strangely similar. My daughter’s cheer squad is composed of ten girls between the ages of eight and twelve. Imagine a pre-pubescent tapestry of girl drama, crazed Justin Bieber fans, and fragile hormones in bloom. Get the picture?
So the little cats, I mean cheerleaders, had an all day practice at the church to prepare for competition. Once the whining started, their cheer coach, called a time-out and we headed over to the food court at the mall for lunch. The mall is in walking distance from the church, but can be a treacherous journey because of the steep hill and few sidewalks. On top of the danger factor, I had the baby with me, harnessed securely in her stroller, so the mama bear factor was in full effect. I was a fierce woman protecting her baby and cheer cubs.
On the way back, full of Sprite and tacos, the girls were extra boisterous, and the coach and I cajoled and pleaded with the girls to stay on the side-walk. They gave each other piggy back rides, gossiped, yelled out cheers at the top of their lungs, and made sure that all cars passing by noticed their utter cuteness. I felt somewhat helpless trying to corral them, but I gave it my best shot. We tried a different route on the way back, hoping for a little less anxiety, but inevitably we rounded another corner with no sidewalk. Very carefully, I instructed the girls to hug the side of the street, and we marched two by two around the turn. In the blink of an eye, a woman driving a white Mercedes whipped around the corner, in the wrong lane, and headed straight for us. Fortunately, she made eye contact at the last second and swerved out-of-the-way.
The coach yelled at her to slow down. So the lady obliged. She slowed down long enough to give us a dirty look and glare at us. In my best pastor’s wife voice I said, “Please, go ahead and speed back up. I am sure you can kill someone else!”
Ok, maybe that was Satan’s voice, but I did say it in a syrupy sweet tone. In response, she whipped her finger out of the car, shouted an expletive beginning with F… and ending with You, and then used the corresponding hand motion. This woman actually flipped off a baby, two mothers and a passel of cheerleaders. What is the world coming to?
The girls were shocked and I was stunned. The coach and I looked at each other in disbelief. This woman, who had almost killed a group of children while driving in the wrong lane, and speeding no less, had just given us the bird. Please tell me how you explain that to a group of little girls.
“Girls, the psycho lady didn’t mean to act so ugly, she was just having a bad day.”
In all reality, we were too frightened to say much. The near brush with death had sobered up even the most hyper girls of the bunch, and for a few moments, all were subdued. But little girls have short memories, and soon their gaiety returned, albeit…their steps were more careful and their eyes more alert.
I have to wonder though, what kind of hurry was the lady in? Was a sale at the mall worth a life in prison for vehicular manslaughter? Is any event, appointment, or momentary drama worth risking a life for?
And most importantly…where do I need to slow down in my life and stop taking dangerous short-cuts?
In another initiative to over protect our kids and alleviate any modicum of self-reliance, a suburban Chicago school district has outfitted their students backpacks with a luggage tag size GPS that monitors when the student gets on and off the bus. While I can appreciate the concern of parent’s for their child’s welfare, this whole concept of micro-chipping our pets and kids has an ominous big brother tone that is eerily playing out before our very eyes. But more importantly, from a developmental perspective, navigating the bus, with all its relational drama and intensity, is a rite of passage for a child. This is where we learn to stand on our two feet, set good boundaries and survive in a world without mom and dad. It’s where both good and bad decisions are made, and kids actually learn from natural consequences.
This takes me back to my own bus story as kid, a defining moment in the spectrum of childhood adventure. It also makes me wonder how many kids will we emotionally handicap by never letting them screw up, get lost and find their way back home.
The year was 1977; I was seven-year old 2nd grader, taking the big yellow school bus home for the first time. Apprehensive all day, the momentous occasion had finally arrived. There I stood, in my rainbow knee socks and straggly pig-tails, taking in what seemed like an endless row of busses. My parents had told me to take the bus that went to South Huntington Beach but I could only see black numbers on the side of the yellow behemoths. Starting to panic, I asked one of the drivers where they were going. He looked down at me, scratched his scraggly chin, and said, “Honey this bus is going to Huntington Beach.”
Well…that seemed close enough, so I skipped on up the stairs, and settled down into a seat near one of my classmates that I recognized. We drove off and I settled in to what seemed like an awfully long ride to South Huntington Beach. After all the kids but one had gotten off the bus, it started to dawn on me that something was terribly wrong. Timidly I approached the driver, “Sir, I thought you said we were going to Huntington Beach?”
The old driver cackled, “I just drove through the whole damn town. You lost kid?”
“Yes sir,” I warbled, my eyes filling with tears.
“Well this bus is going back to the yard and I got plans. You gotta get off at the next stop cuz I don’t have time to deal with you. Go with that other kid and call your mom.”
“Ok,” I said, more scared of the bus yard than being abandoned. I envisioned a field of empty yellow buses with no mommies for miles.
I followed the sole little girl off the bus and asked her if I could call my mom from her house. She agreed and off we trotted to her home. Her mother fussed over me like a hen, until my own mom arrived, distraught over the mishap. I heard my mother telling the girl’s mom; “you would think a kid going to a gifted and talented magnet school could figure out how to take a bus.”
Embarrassed and yet exhilarated that I had survived a dangerous journey all by myself, I stood up a little taller and I didn’t hold my mom’s hand on the way out like I usually did. Strangely enough, some lessons of self-reliance can only be learned by getting on the wrong bus.
My twelve year old son has recently become an advocate for breast cancer awareness. Who knew he was so compassionate about fighting cancer? He even wore a pink armband in his last football game. And though I am excited that I can actually find him on the football field in a dog pile, his obsession with NFL.com/pink raises some big red flags for this mama. Now call me naive….but I wonder if his sudden interest has any connection to do with the “I Love Boobies” campaign?
In a brilliant marketing scheme, capitalizing on our hyper sexualized culture, the keep a Breast Foundation folks have certainly generated publicity, but at what cost? Is an adolescent boy with raging hormones their intended audience? Because, quite frankly, his parents hold the checkbook and it’s only pissing me off, not helping their cause. There are plenty of non-profits legitimately raising funds for breast cancer research that I am more apt to support versus the ones exploiting boobs for cash. Why this campaign smells like a rat:
• It’s Offensive
First of all, our national obsession with artificially enhanced breasts has absolutely nothing to do with a cancer victim fighting to save her life. While Heidi Montag may be the epitome of the Girls Gone Wild mentality, having boobs the size of a beach ball doesn’t evoke a lot of sympathy to a woman facing death and a double mastectomy. If anything, it trivializes the devastation to both her breasts and the disease itself. If I saw an infant wearing an I Love Boobies t-shirt, I might be more prone to levity, but on a pimply teen, it’s just plain offensive. This campaign objectifies a woman as a sexual object instead of a human being battling a serious illness.
Tracy Clark-Flory put it this way. “When death is truly knocking at your door — and I’m not talking about early, uncertain cases — most aren’t thinking about how much they love their breasts, they’re thinking about how much they love not being dead. They’re thinking: Chop those things off, now.”
• What’s the real message?
I also have two daughters at home and I can only speculate what this message conveys to them? Do we love hurting women or just their mammary offering to society? What is the worth of a woman… her contribution to society or her bra size? And, what’s next? Do we allow our girls to run around in Juicy sweats with “I Love Colons” plastered on their little bottoms? How about an “I Love Balls” t-shirt? Does this really heighten awareness or advance perversity masquerading as a worthy cause?
• What are the Consequences?
And for those that minimize this, I would argue that the battle for our sons to protect them from a lifetime addiction to pornography starts here. During the most impressionable age of sexual identification, this is another area of compromise alluring to our children.
Ron Hogan at PopFi stated, “Maybe some kids are just wearing these bands because they say “boobies” on them. But “who cares?” The bracelets are getting out an important message. Besides, students are exposed to “much worse things than breast-themed bracelets” at school every day.
Who Cares? I do! And while we can’t protect our children from everything, schools do try and limit their exposure to harmful behaviors. I would argue that the very same reasons why schools outlaw guns, sexual harassment, bullying, and gay bashing also motivate them to ban these bracelets from the playground. Why would it ever be beneficial to degrade a woman fighting cancer?
Breast cancer is destructive in its own right. Exploiting our kids in the interest of propagating an ad campaign doesn’t further the cause.So, even though I love breasts, particurally cancer free ones…I won’t be buying any of their bracelets for my pree-teen son to show my support
My family moved into a suburban neighborhood like no other this last year.
It is akin to Wisteria lane on steroids.
Currently there are 49 children on our block. Our home, a taupe colored shingled Craftsman, sits on the corner with a large wrap around porch and is dead center in the hub of activity.
Summer nights are filled with shrieks and laughter, street barbecues and ditch’em, hide and seek and babies in diapers crawling around on the grass as mommies linger outside to milk in the last rays of light.
Every fantasy I envisioned of a loving community of people doing life together has been more than fulfilled when I look out my window in the morning and see neighbors smiling and waving.
Coming from a cramped condo with three kids, there aren’t enough words to describe this bliss. Now as Fall approaches, we are being indoctrinated into a new series of neighborhood rituals.
The Halloween decorations are beginning to pop up…pumpkins and spiders, webs and ghouls. The trees are glowing with orange jack-o-lantern lights and scarecrows smiling at sinister zombies.
Our street is reminiscent of a Normal Rockwell painting juxtaposed with cheap Costco decorations. It is Americana at it’s finest…awesome and over commercialized.
A few nights ago, I was at home cuddled up on the sofa writing. My older kids and husband were at sports practice,while the baby played at my feet and dismantled the neatly kept playroom, one toy at a time. Out of the blue, the doorbell rang and I heard leaves crunching, feet running away and heavy breathing.
I nervously peered out the peephole, and saw nothing but ominous darkness. Wisteria lane had become Hysteria Lane in my mind as I conjured up home invasions and kidnappers. I bolted the door and walked to the window. Then it rang again, but this time I spied little feet running away and ascertained that it was a small child and probably not a big threat. I slowly opened the door and looked around. In front of the doorstep was a big bag filled with goodies.
Inside the BOO bag were Halloween crafts, pumpkin decorating tools, outdoor decorations, candy, shoelaces and a letter. It explained that we needed to display an orange pumpkin cutout that said BOO on our home and within two days repeat this activity to two neighbors. If the plan worked, by Halloween our whole neighborhood would be a BOO friendly zone, and every child would share in the excitement.
My kids were so excited when they came home and quickly dug into their booty. Then we plotted and planned who would be the recipient of our booing.
Choosing which neighbors to BOO was the hard part, but we unanimously decided upon the new family across the street, with two little ones and our neighbor behind us, who is a widowed father. First we assembled the bags. Dog bones, pretzels, ghost marshmallows, assorted candy and freshly baked cookies for the neighbor behind us. For the young family we found Halloween cut-outs, plastic spiders, candy, cookies and toy boats handmade for their toddler boy. We giggled and delighted in our efforts, then headed out the door on a mission to spook our neighbors and bless them.
First, we hit the neighbors with the little kids. They live in a beautiful yellow clapboard home with a white picket fence and large front yard. A little red baby swing hangs from the eaves of their porch and toys are scattered askew.
My son slowly opened their front gate, tip-toed up to the door, rang the doorbell and bolted. The baby and I watched from our front window, while my daughter hid behind a car in their driveway with my son. The young dad peered out his front door, but didn’t see anyone. They have a beveled glass top door, so we were fortunate to be able to watch his reactions.
He looked around suspiciously, then slowly opened the door and spied the BOO bag. He looked around again as my kids, hiding in his driveway stifled guffaws, then picked up the bag and upon realizing it was a surprise, called out for his little boy and they happily tore into the bag. Mission accomplished! We tricked them and then treated them…mmmm, I wonder if that’s how it all started?
House number two was a different type of BOO. Not long before we moved in, our neighbor behind us had lost his wife to cancer. He was still living in her dream home, a romantic Spanish style abode with a lush yard and arched entryway. His daughter, a beautiful girl in her mid-twenties, had moved home to help with her mother’s care in the last days. She is still living with him, and slowly recapturing her spirit after the devastation. The younger son is in college but also lives at home. He doesn’t smile much and keeps his distance. They are fragile, at best, and we desperately wanted to make things better. So we BOO’d them. A simple but intentional move to show them we cared.
Our plan was to plant our nine month old baby on the doorstep, armed with a glow stick and the BOO bag. I hid closely behind the arch as we rang the bell. But in our sneaky plans, we forgot about their dog. Bullet, a large Siberian Husky bounded up to the door barking furiously. In a flash, I grabbed the baby who started crying. Tim opened the door and there I stood…with a crying baby, a BOO bag, and two older kids yelling at me, “abort, abort.”.
I was a BOO failure!
Then Tim called the dog off and asked me what I was doing. Before I could say anything, he saw the bag. “Are you BOOing me?” he asked.
“Yes, but I didn’t do a very good job,” I said.
He didn’t say anything more, took the bag from my hands and slowly shut the door. Just before it closed he looked up at me and smiled.
So , maybe our covert operation was more awkward than finely tuned, but our hearts were full and our souls nourished as we headed home. The BOOing had allowed us, for a moment in time, to be a part of something bigger and to step out of the ordinary and mundane in our lives. We learned that being a neighbor isn’t just about living in a neighborhood…it’s about engaging in the stories of humanity. Mr. Rogers put it this way, “If you could only sense how important you are to the lives of those you meet; how important you can be to the people you may never even dream of. There is something of yourself that you leave at every meeting with another person.”
And as I drifted off to sleep that night, a familiar song of childhood came to mind… “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Won’t you be my neighbor?”
My baby decided to start talking. After almost nine months of love, care and devotion, my little princess took her “first step” in verbal communication and moved beyond baby babble to string two words together.
I should be happy about this momentous developmental milestone but I find myself struggling. This is the sweet little baby girl who nursed at my bosom, took 22 hours to deliver, and who watches the 4:30am early show with me each day over a bottle and coffee(while daddy sleeps).
After endless rounds of poopy diapers and my shoes covered in spit up, mama thought she might get some love. But to my dismay, the little angel that I dress in Carters with matching bows, play endless rounds of peek-a-boo with, and carry around in a sling like a kangaroo… shouted across a football field for all to hear, “Hi Da Da!”
My baby is a traitor.
When I try to get her to say “Hi Mama,” she smiles a big gummy grin, her one baby tooth poking through, and enunciates very carefully…”Hi Da Da.”
My husband loves every minute of Baby Benedict Arnold.
He proudly announced to our friends tonight that the baby prefers him, and then he chortled and winked at me. We both know who does the heavy lifting for our little bundle of joy and his delight in the baby’s recognition of him is both genuine and tongue in cheek. He is careful to remind me of our deep connection and though his words are reassuring, baby’s first sentence has touched on something deeper than a daddy vs. mommy competition…my baby is growing up.
Despite his incessant goading, I can understand why my husband is so jazzed. The bond between a mother and baby is formidable and all too often daddy’s feel left out. The baby cries when mommy leaves and daddy begins to both anticipate and dread time alone with her. And though some dad’s are the primary caregiver and nurturer, most dad’s are just biding their time with baby until they are strong enough to be launched in the air and can play catch with. As baby made a move towards him, he felt validated as a father and respected for his contribution.
So baby’s shout out to dad was as much a developmental milestone for her as it was for mom and dad. For mom it represents the first in a long line of moments of baby separating and becoming independent. Baby chooses what she wants to say and asserts her burgeoning sense of self. For dad, her words represent the promise of a deeper relationship as she moves out of infancy and becomes a little person capable of interaction.
And though I am still waiting for “Hi mama,” I can look into her innocent little eyes and delight at her achievement, while subtlety ignoring my husband’s heckling.
