Glorious Summer

See the title of this post? Originally, this post had 12 pictures with commentary about all the wonderful ways we're spending the summer. Then Lillian reached up her tiny (and oh-so-dexteritous) pointer finger and click, click, the whole thing was deleted. I'm still trying to figure out how she did it, but after that click, all that remained is the title.

I sort of want to tether Lillian to her crib today. Or wrap her in her swaddling blanket so her hands can't get free. Or give her a dose of Tylenol (doesn't that fix everything?). Deleting my blog post is only the beginning of our woes together over the last 24 hours.

Let's see, there's the cover plate to bottom of the oven which she's pulled loose; there's the dishwasher which she's dived into twice (once full, once empty); there's the CD tower she's attacked, there's the full container of new mineral makeup she swiped off the bathroom counter and spilled all over herself and the floor, and there's the scissors she grabbed while I was busy with them.

Amazingly enough, all of these minor catastrophes have occured while I was within 6 inches of her. In fact, she's going through a clingy phase and doesn't like to let me out of her sight. Thus, when I go to wash the dishes, Lillian follows, with a plunge into the dishwasher or a crash into the cupboards. When I attempt to get ready in the morning, Lillian follows, with swipes on the counter of whatever I may leave there and eager dips into the toilet or garbage can.

I've child-proofed what I can (step into my bathroom right now and you'll see the garbage can on top of the toilet, all cleaning supplies cleared out of any cabinets, even the toilet knobs removed and placed in a bucket far away from her eager grasp) but somehow Lillian finds a way to get past it all. The result of all this busy-ness is: bangs and bruises, a deep gash in her finger, plus all the undone dishes (I'm scared to go near the sink these days since she's sure to follow), the undone laundry (don't let that girl get near the laundry room), and me, who is more than a little frazzled from her nonstop movement.

Last night during the post-scissor-grabbing-clean up, I found myself covered in her blood--wow do fingers bleed a lot--and sweat from my own panic and adrenaline, ankle deep in gauze and bandages and all else as I tried to help a screaming 10 month old with the pain, clean up, and bandaging of a deep cut. A cut which, fortunately, did not need stitches.

Whew. All of this is reminding me of a conversation I had at the grocery store a couple of weeks ago with an older woman, a kindly stranger whose grocery cart kept finding company with mine as we perused different aisles. About the third time we passed one another, she reached out her hand to Lillian's outstretched one. "Ah, sweet baby," she said gently. "What is her name?"

"Lillian Grace," I said, with all the pride of a new mother still enamoured with her baby's name. "What a beautiful baby," she said. "Thank you," I responded, expecting her to let go of Lillian's hand and move on. But she lingered.

"They say you must appreciate her while you have her, but you can't, can you?" I stood awkwardly, not quite knowing what to say. She continued despite my silence. "You can't appreciate every moment, not when they're little like this. Oh, you know you should, and you'll want to, but you get too caught up in how busy they are, or how busy you are, and life has a way of getting in the way."

Something about the gentleness of her touch and the soft tone of her voice helped convey the wisdom and truth of her words. They were not words said with bitterness or cynicism, rather, they were spoken in kind honesty.

"They grow up so fast," she said, "and you can't hold them in your arms forever. The best you can do is try to love them as they are, right now... isn't that right?" She said, looking at Lillian who was eyeing her carefully.

And then she was gone, pushing her cart and leaving me to sort out what she said. Within her words, somehow, I felt the unspoken permission to love the moment as it is, all while knowing I don't really understand how to.

I'm in a place right now where all Lillian wants is me, to be held, cuddled, entertained, watched over, and it is difficult. And wonderful. But hard. And fleeting. And tiring. And amazing.

The paradox of motherhood.

I can hear her cry from her room as I finish this. She's awake from her nap. So, here we go again, my precious child.