Away He GoesSeptember 19, 2011 at 1:46 pm | Posted in Bun, Family, Me, Transylvania | 13 Comments
Tags: Babies, Challenges, Children, Expats, Family, Injury, Life, Motherhood, Relationships, Romania
Mostly, these days, I sit. I hobble from the bed to the couch. And sit. I hobble from the couch to the bed. And sit.
While I’m sitting, Lollipop might sidle up and ask me to read her a Fancy Nancy book. Or play Candy Land with just the yellow cards, because those are my favorite. Or fasten the Velcro on her princess dress of the hour. Giggles might steamroll by to race cars or show me his new favorite rock. And Bun might toddle over, belly leading the way, to construct, deconstruct, throw, and eat Legos.
And then they’re all on their way again, off on their next great adventure, even if it’s just to see how many bubbles it takes to fill the sink. Or how many Cheerios are hiding under the couch. Or how many trains they can shove in their pillowcase.
And I sit. And watch. And let it happen, let them go, let them be.
It’s a perfect metaphor for mothering, all this sitting back and watching. I don’t like it one bit. It’s too soon. I’m supposed to have more time, especially with my baby.
Since he learned to walk two months ago, Bun has wanted to go. He doesn’t want to sit or be held or be kept from going. And that, of course, is the crux of it. He wants do do what I can’t do. Before, when both of my legs worked, I could scoop him up and rock back and forth in the familiar foxtrot we spent his first months perfecting.
Now, I hold him for seconds before he squirms and cries to get down, to get going. Not even the familiar comfort and softness of Mommy’s arms can dissuade him from exploration. It makes my heart hurt more than my broken leg ever has. Because it’s my only chance. I can’t lay him in his crib. I can’t press his sweet, sleepy cheek to mine just as he wakes up. I can’t smell his soapy sweetness as I dry him off after a bath.
I can only capture him as he wobbles by and hold him tight until he complains. No quiet snuggles, no silky curls tickling my cheek, no chubby baby hands wrapped in mine. Only stolen moments and loud protests.
And by the time I’m able to pick him up, to hold him, to dance with him again? My baby won’t be a baby anymore. He’ll have traded his chubby thighs for lanky ones, his clumsy and adorable waddle for a purposeful toddler’s stride.
He’ll have grown up right in front of me. Literally.
How do you handle your children growing up? How do you manage to steal snuggles? And how do you find comfort as you let them go?