I'm Waging War Against "Savor Every Moment"
Let me pour myself a fresh drink here.
That's better.
You've heard this before. You've read it in the blog posts all your mom friends pass around on Facebook. You've seen it in comments to moms who are overwhelmed and venting in a safe space so they don't list their kids on eBay.
Maybe you've even said it. The horror.
"Savor every moment."
"They're only this little once."
"You're gonna miss this."
Yesterday, we powerwashed, dried, and boxed up Evan's booster seat. No more buckles around dining room chairs. (No more straightjacketing him to his seat.) My heart played that country song I hate... You're gonna miss this, you're gonna want this back. You're gonna wish these days hadn't gone by so fast...
No. Shut up.
I do get the momentary pangs when packing up outgrown clothes and boxing up infant toys (the Jumperoo made me tear up a little), but here's what I hate about these sayings, songs, blogs, and advice: we don't need the extra baggage. Growing Up is inevitable, and we already beat ourselves up for every little thing, every day. Did they eat anything with nutrition? Did I yell too much (always)? Did I do enough with them today? Did they learn anything? We over-analyze everything we do and say, searching for some way we screwed up that will surely land them in therapy later in life. We read "new research" by the assload, all of which has the same conclusion: Stop Doing This Or You'll Kill Your Kids.
On top of all of that, we must also savor every moment. Because he's two right now (and tomorrow he'll be older than he was today), I need to savor every time Evan headbutts my nose closer to breaking. Because Kelsey is four right now (and when I blink, she'll pack a framed photo into her dorm box, revealing a scribble on the wall from preschool) I need to enjoy her every drop-to-the-floor meltdown because Evan breathed her air. I have to love every time my food is taken from my hands, every "juice, please!"
Hours spent trying not to vibrate into a pile of anxiety while trapped on the turnpike with screaming newborns. Revolving our entire lives around nap schedules. Washing Dr. Brown's bottles (I danced during both Last Washes). All of the screens in the house are shredded, and I didn't do it.
Every time we get groceries, they sit side by side in two-seater carts and they war with their skulls like fighting giraffes.
I'll take the photos and the memories, thank you very much. I can't do a damn thing about time, but I can write things down, take photos, keep favorite onesies, keep artwork, and video baby voices. I can revisit them at any time, without poopy diapers. I'm too busy feeling guilty for putting the TV on for six hours to worry about what I can't control.
***
In Kelsey's room, there is a close-up portrait of her in a blanket, at about three months old. No teeth have come in yet, so she has a full-blown gummy smile. I pointed to it and asked then-two-year-old Kelsey "where's that baby? Where'd that baby go?"
She put her hand on her belly and said "Mama, it's me. I'm right here!"
That you are, Chick. That you are.
That's better.
You've heard this before. You've read it in the blog posts all your mom friends pass around on Facebook. You've seen it in comments to moms who are overwhelmed and venting in a safe space so they don't list their kids on eBay.
Maybe you've even said it. The horror.
"Savor every moment."
"They're only this little once."
"You're gonna miss this."
Yesterday, we powerwashed, dried, and boxed up Evan's booster seat. No more buckles around dining room chairs. (No more straightjacketing him to his seat.) My heart played that country song I hate... You're gonna miss this, you're gonna want this back. You're gonna wish these days hadn't gone by so fast...
No. Shut up.
I do get the momentary pangs when packing up outgrown clothes and boxing up infant toys (the Jumperoo made me tear up a little), but here's what I hate about these sayings, songs, blogs, and advice: we don't need the extra baggage. Growing Up is inevitable, and we already beat ourselves up for every little thing, every day. Did they eat anything with nutrition? Did I yell too much (always)? Did I do enough with them today? Did they learn anything? We over-analyze everything we do and say, searching for some way we screwed up that will surely land them in therapy later in life. We read "new research" by the assload, all of which has the same conclusion: Stop Doing This Or You'll Kill Your Kids.
On top of all of that, we must also savor every moment. Because he's two right now (and tomorrow he'll be older than he was today), I need to savor every time Evan headbutts my nose closer to breaking. Because Kelsey is four right now (and when I blink, she'll pack a framed photo into her dorm box, revealing a scribble on the wall from preschool) I need to enjoy her every drop-to-the-floor meltdown because Evan breathed her air. I have to love every time my food is taken from my hands, every "juice, please!"
Hours spent trying not to vibrate into a pile of anxiety while trapped on the turnpike with screaming newborns. Revolving our entire lives around nap schedules. Washing Dr. Brown's bottles (I danced during both Last Washes). All of the screens in the house are shredded, and I didn't do it.
Every time we get groceries, they sit side by side in two-seater carts and they war with their skulls like fighting giraffes.
I'll take the photos and the memories, thank you very much. I can't do a damn thing about time, but I can write things down, take photos, keep favorite onesies, keep artwork, and video baby voices. I can revisit them at any time, without poopy diapers. I'm too busy feeling guilty for putting the TV on for six hours to worry about what I can't control.
***
In Kelsey's room, there is a close-up portrait of her in a blanket, at about three months old. No teeth have come in yet, so she has a full-blown gummy smile. I pointed to it and asked then-two-year-old Kelsey "where's that baby? Where'd that baby go?"
She put her hand on her belly and said "Mama, it's me. I'm right here!"
That you are, Chick. That you are.
Dear Kelsey.
ReplyDeleteDon't listen to Mom. Older siblings are the superior lifeform. Evan only breathes your oxygen with your permission. It will be a lifelong battle. No surrender. No mercy.
Signed, an oldest sibling.