Awkward Mom vs. Year One

Time flies. It all goes so fast. They grow like weeds. It is over before you know it. The thing about cliches is: They are said so much because they are often so true.

Dear Super Baby-

Today you are hot and have a tooth coming in, so I am holding you and dancing around the air conditioned bedroom, just to get you to smile. And it is working. Mommy is magical. Or air conditioning is. But mostly Mommy. I gently toss you up in the air (Because Grandma isn't here to see and freak out) and you laugh. That laugh is seriously the best sound on the planet. It is like a million happy noises all jammed into one perfect noise wearing a party dress and wrapped up in a bow that smells like strawberries and sunscreen and Christmas.

And then you land, safe in my arms, gazing at me like I am the coolest thing ever. You see, you haven't discovered Elmo yet. I am it. I am the best thing ever. You reach up to touch my face, just to prove that I am real and all yours. Tiny fingers, impossibly soft, grasp and cling to my neck, and we collapse onto the bed for a snuggle that lasts all morning. I wish it would last my whole life.

I am trying to memorize this moment. Trying to carve it into my brain, so that I can haul it back out when you are 12. When you are trying to leave the house in a mini-skirt you conned your Grandmother into buying. To go play mini-golf with some friends, swearing to me that no boys are going to be there. Promising me that the sleepover will be highly supervised and that Candi's mom is totally cool. But, Super Baby, she named her daughter Candi. And you roll your eyes at me. And we are fighting. And you still look like my little baby, standing there, hands on your hips, eyes blazing, and oh holy cats, is that eye shadow? So, I am dragging you into the bathroom and you are yelling that I just don't understand you and why don't I trust you, and baby, I totally trust you, but I don't trust 12 year old boys or mothers who name their daughters with stripper names. And you are crying. And I am remembering this same fight with my mother, minus the eye shadow, because let's be honest, she would have killed me. So, I let you go. I debate fitting you with a tracking device but I let you go. I wave to Candi's mom, who might have very pronounced frosted tips but seems responsible, and I let you go. Cry. And remember today.

Because today: Candi and her mom are miles away and you are my round little baby who is more likely to chew on a mini-skirt and you are snuggled up under my chin as I type this, absently stroking my ear with your tiny perfect hand and whispering your baby dreams into my neck. And I am tattooing it into my brain. Or maybe just writing it into my blog. Same thing.

I love you,
but eye shadow looks really silly in the daytime,
Awkward Mom

Could someone get Awkward Mom some chocolate and remind her that Super Baby is only 7 months and that we have to get through the rest of the teeth, crawling, walking, talking, counting, reading, potty training, kindergarten, and a few other milestones before we need to worry about middle school, mini-skirts, and makeup? Or if you are feeling tired, just send the chocolate. Catch ya later, Readers!

I know. Growing up is so lame. How about you stay my little princess forever, eh?