Annual Review: Year Four

I never knew how badly I wanted you until I saw that first positive pregnancy test, that first faint line.

I went off to a meeting that day, an all-staff meeting. I was bored, but smiling. I had a secret. I drank all the free tea and ate all the free food and smiled to myself.

I didn’t tell anyone until two days later. Four weeks pregnant hardly counts. I knew that. I told people anyway.

Oh and then you grew from that speck to a marble, marble to a grapefruit, grapefruit to a basketball, basketball to a

…baby.

It’s a baby, I said when you were born.

When you were born, after all the stress and cervical checks and really long shower and really short pushing stage, I thought you were the most beautiful baby in the world. Your huge, round head. Your plump fists. Your little nose and smirky lips and the very lightest dusting of fine hairs on your head.

We took a lot of pictures of you. You were probably six months old when I looked at those newborn pictures and said, wow. Not as cute as I remember.

What? said maternal side, pulling out her switch to whip me.
Ugly! said realistic side.

You had pimples. You had blotchy red skin. You had a blocked tear duct. Your hands and feet were scaly because your amniotic swimming pool had been drying out / I wasn’t drinking enough water / he were a week past your due date.

Saint Aardvark said it best (and has said it repeatedly over the many years I have known him): All newborn babies look like Winston Churchill.

6 months later, I could see that. But then, at six months, you were the most beautiful baby. Gorgeous blond hair. Huge blue eyes. Pudgy like a Buddha. Still toothless.

And then, when you were a year old, I looked at the pictures from 6 months and said,

Kind of funny looking, really, isn’t he?
What?
The kid is funny looking.

The grandparents are tsking. I know. You are many, many things, Trombone.

A genius,
rhythmic
and musical
and friendly
and funny
and curious. Very very curious.

You are gorgeous when you smile.

***

If you were to ask me, “Cheesefairy, how would you judge your ability to live in the moment, from 1 – 10,” I would probably score myself at 4. Maybe at 3.

I used to live a lot in the past, but when I stopped being able to remember it accurately, I switched to the future. Partly this is out of necessity; it really is important when managing a household and two small children to know what you’re doing tomorrow and next week and whether or not you’ll need to buy bread and milk or just bread. If you run out of bread! If you don’t sweep the floor 8 times a day! If child A has sniffly nose starting Saturday morning and vacation starts Thursday morning, will child B be insufferable or merely miserable by the time it is time to get in the car?

And you say I suck at algebra.

But then it seems, also out of necessity, I spend a great deal of time in the present. Who is crying. Has he stopped yet. Is the sun out. Look, they’re playing together. Listen, it’s quiet. Just right now. Just right now.

***

This week leading up to your birthday has been chaos. We are leaving town on your birthday, on our first family vacation. No, not the camping trip, this is just a small jaunt but still, the planning. I am planning, planning, planning and then you got sick. And then your dad got sick, really sick, too sick to move. And then your brother got sick. And so here I am, on your birthday eve-eve, trying to be eloquent and really, what I want is to have there be no more bullshit, thanks.

How non-eloquent. Parenthood: The non-eloquence.

***

I have always tried to be realistic. I keep my standards low and my hopes high. Don’t ever read this and think I didn’t love being your mother. I did. I do. Some days are easier than others.

***

The first birthday party we had for you was in my parents’ backyard. We ate lemon thyme shortbread.
The second was at our house. We ate strawberry ice cream cake.
The third was at my parents’ again. We ate cupcakes, little ones.
This year we will be at a lake, watching fireworks because you share your birthday with Canada.

This year has been a big one. This year is the year you:

– learned how to make friends
– discovered superheroes
– started dressing yourself
– and eating a relatively balanced diet again
– experimented with different screams and yells and tantrum techniques
– stopped napping regularly
– started riding a tricycle
– became brave enough to play with the scary kids
– decided you were an authority on almost everything
– lost your phobias of noise, sheep and scary things
– found your voice and imagination.

It’s incredible. I don’t even like fireworks but I think you deserve them.

***

As a mother, I think I do OK. It still weirds me out to hear kids refer to me as Trombone’s mom. I have everyone else convinced, but four years later I still sometimes feel like an imposter. Like the babysitter. I look at photos from before he was born, even just the year before, and I was so young. I can’t objectively say that I looked younger then, because I think it’s like reading old writing; the stuff you wrote last year is always better than what you’re writing right now. But I feel older now, especially since we added Fresco to the mix. Suddenly, my eyes are lined, puffy, my slouch is more pronounced. I feel older when I look at my old smile, my old chin, my old clothes.

I went digging in a box in our storage room to find a cushion for a booster seat – it was in a giant storage bin that also contained a Christmas tree stand and an empty hanging basket (of course) – and I found a box of pre-pregnancy clothes. Tiny tank tops I had bought on CafePress. Concert t-shirts. Itty bitty useless bras. These clothes are suitable dress up clothes (except the thong that has a squirrel that goes wheeeeeee! on it) for my kids now. They are dress up clothes not just because they are small but because they belong to a person who is not me. They were a costume I wore when I was that other person.

***

I attempted to cut Trombone’s hair while he and Fresco were in the bath. His hair is thick, straight, blond. It is very warm on his head. Both of the children need haircuts but Trombone actually asked me to cut his because he claims he will be cooler with it short. I got halfway done and he got cold, wanted to get out of the bath, said he liked the hair fine.

But…I said.
Yeah, it’s fine, he said.

The right side is short. The left side is long.

That night, after the bath, when he smiled at himself in the mirror and did a little pose and said it’s fine, I like it mummy, he was the most beautiful child.

The next morning I thought, oh god. I have to fix that.

Magic.

Four years of slogging and stress and anger and tears and confusion and questions, so many questions, and laughter and sadness and all of it surrounded, rainbow-bubbled, by magic.

Four years of every day knowing he is the most beautiful child, within and without, and every new day, thinking, no TODAY he is the most beautiful child. Today. He could not possibly be more beautiful than he is right now.

Four years today. And counting.