Emry and the dinos, April 2013
Last month, Emry turned two and a half.
This child melts me.
I have written reams in my head about Emry, but when it comes to actually putting words down, I tend to skip over most of it.
When Elan was a baby and then a toddler, I felt so immersed in the thick of it – the exhaustion, the cluelessness, the fuss, oh, the never-ending fuss. I had to write about it to release some of the frustration and to help me find humor in the ridiculousness, so I started this blog when he was just shy of 2 and a half.
I also wanted a place to help me find perspective, because I knew deep down that your kid stomping in a puddle as soon as you’ve managed to wrangle him into clean, dry clothes isn’t really a big deal, no matter how fast it puts the brakes on any momentum you’ve managed to rev up to leave the vicinity of your house.
Emry, December 2012, in his teeny-tiny sneakers, one now lost
I wanted to savor the moment, because I knew time was fleeting, but it was difficult.
It’s still difficult.
Except then, I had the comfort of telling myself that I’d have another baby, and the next time, I’d feel less clueless and anxious, so I’d be able to enjoy it more.
And that’s true.
Chilling out with a yogurt squeezer, May 2013
But the flip side is that, this time, I’m not planning on having a next time.
All these moments are Emry’s firsts, and my lasts, as Mama of a 2.5-year-old.
Nubbins and the giant wisteria, April 2013
I listen to his squeaky little voice carefully piecing together a complex sentence, and my heart wants to break. My heart feels a little raw with how beautiful it is to watch him grow. I want to stop time so that I can just live in the moment when he turns our little family unit into the animal version: “Dada is the dada penguin. Mama is the mama penguin. Elan is the bwotha penguin. I’m the baby penguin.” Or when he sings “Jingle Bells” softly in the backseat of the car. Or when I hear him playing an imaginary game with his Lego guys.
With the Lego spaceship he made himself, May 2013
Of course, he can also throw a rip-roaring temper tantrum now. And though I’m definitely better at dealing with those than I was with Elan, there are still moments when I find myself gritting my teeth and growling “Stop it!” as I try to wrangle him into his carseat. And sometimes I yell, and he looks startled, or he covers his ears, or Elan says “Don’t yell at Emry,” and then I feel bad.
Even though I know that mothering without yelling is nearly impossible for me, I still feel bad about it when I truly lose my temper with one of them.
This is a rambling post.
A tender-heart post.
A bear-with-me post.
It’s easier to write about a toddler pooping in the bathtub than it is to write about how watching that toddler grow into his own person makes me want to cry in gratitude, that he’s healthy and growing, and in sadness, because as he grows, my ability to protect him diminishes. I can’t nurse away all his upset anymore. I have to tell him no and you can’t do that and if you run away from me on the street you’ll have to stay in your stroller.
I can’t just strap him on my back and take him everywhere I go. He’s got his own opinions, and he makes them known. Sometimes they are impossibly cute, like Can we go to Sea World? as I’m putting him to bed and sometimes they are impossibly frustrating like I don’t want to put on clothes! delivered for the fifth time in a row.
There you have it, that’s 2 and a half for you.
