Not the show; that thing is the perfect combination of witty banter, human depravity, graceful aging and stumbling love. I seriously love it.
No, I have a problem with real-life parenthood. I just weaned (from the boob) my 14-month-old baby. I spent the previous year+ trying to adjust to a tiny person needing me exclusively; because we demand fed, she nursed whenever either of us thought it was a good idea. As demanding as that was, I’m a little nipstalgic.
Now, my baby doesn’t need me for sustenance. She doesn’t need my lady lumps for comfort. She can sleep without a midnight snack of warm milk. (I don’t know anyone besides nursing babes and old people on TV who drink warm milk. Old people, that’s gross.)
We’ve entered a new phase in our relationship. I see interactive play; extended periods apart and counting to 1,2,3 before timeout in our future. I just want to go back to the days when she only slept, cried, pooped and nursed.
Is this parenthood? Releasing control, slowly letting go of being needed and looking at the big picture in exchange for the momentary easy fix? That’s so freakin’ hard.
That’s what she said. And by she, I mean me. Because as we say goodbye to breastfeeding and all it entails, I suddenly feel very vulnerable as a mama.
My baby will someday feel stupid about an unacknowledged valentine or an unrequited crush. She’ll feel ugly or fat because no matter how many times her daddy says she’s beautiful, she’ll need approval from her friends to feel worthy. Cancer will hit: me, her, someone we love. Sickness, suffering, death are realities. And I can’t protect her from any of it.
This sucks. So hard.
That’s what … Jesus promised. (Ha! Caught you off-guard with Jesus, didn’t I? Boom.)
He said the world is fallen, broken, hurting. We can’t escape the pain. But God is good and in control, in the midst.
That means He loves my baby even more than I do. He can comfort her better, provide for her and teach her His ways. He might allow some jack-ass into her life, wearing a muscle shirt and CK1 to swoop her off her feet and then drop her like she’s hot (she will be hot; it runs in the family), but only to pick her up Himself and show her that His love is the all-consuming and ever-lasting type.
That reminds me. I had a crush in Kindergarten — KIND-ER-FREAKING-GARDEN — who wore a muscle shirt and thought he was hot stuff. And my first kiss was in preschool by an over-zealous boy in corduroys. God loved me through that drama and will love my baby as well when her own version happens.
Because God is more good than we are careful.
But we still need to teach her to be wary of these kinds of jokers and to save kissing for marriage. JK. Or not.