I was going to blog on Mother’s Day about the significance of my first year of motherhood. But I was too tired.
I had the same intention a month later, on S’s first birthday. But I was too tired.
I read the mommy-blogs to laugh, cry, and smirk along with their wisecracks and their words of wisdom. I’m envious at their wit and their synthesis. I have such a hard time accessing my own words for regular conversations that words for reflection seem like a luxury.
I caught myself looking at her this morning and thinking, “wow, you really are here.” It wasn’t a lack-of-coffee haze, but rather a real acknowledgement that she’s here. With us. To grow. To become.
While our whole first year was wound up in how to care for her, how not to break her, how not to break ourselves, I don’t think I had much time to consider what she would be like at age five, twelve, nineteen, thirty-two, fifty five, and so on.
It was my mother’s remark this week that, “As parents you’re constantly looking for the answer to what is wrong (with them) so you can solve it. As grandparents, we just get to watch them.” This whole year has been one big Google search/What to Expect reference book extravaganza…and I’m quite certain that year two will be similar.
I don’t think I’ll be able to shake the need to try to find the answers. But I’m a bit more attuned to the fact that it’s likely a futile endeavor.
So at one year, what do I know? I know that she is here. That’s my only answer.
Photo Credit: Mindful One via Compfight cc
