I want to remember the last times, too
I don’t sing to my daughter anymore. For her first six years of life, our bedtime routine involved some combination of books and songs. She would wear me down and negotiate her way into as many baby books as her tiny hands could hold. As the books got longer we read less of them, but her songs were more of a constant. “You Are My Sunshine” as a toddler, then “Tomorrow” from Annie as a little girl. There was a brief time when she requested “The Star Spangled Banner” in the voice of her stuffed sheep named Spaghetti, which was weird, but that also stopped. Now, she just wants to talk, hug, and say her goodnights.
I have only ever been a parent of young children. In this phase of parenthood, we are hyper-focused on milestones, eager to push them forward into the next stage of their development. We research to find the right first foods, push the potty when our friends start training their kids, and crowdsource for support when it’s time for the toddler rail. We track their lives based on imaginary checklists, our minds put at ease through their curated routines, but only for so long. This is how she likes it, for now. Should I let her keep liking it? Is it time to stop? Usually, we end up stepping in. We give them that push to get there. We feel we have done our jobs, until the next “first” looms, and the push begins again.
But one day, we stop controlling when things stop and start. There won’t be a warning. You may not even notice, because you were just too tired and happy to shut the bedroom door. It only recently dawned on me that my daughter doesn’t let me sing to her anymore. I don’t remember the last time, and I’m not sure how to feel about it. On one hand, this seems healthy. Kids grow up and find the confidence to make changes on their own. On the other, these are our babies we measured ounces of milk for. Purchased backup lovies for. Set ready-to-wake clocks to arbitrary times for, because 6:47am felt more humane than making them wait until 7. They still need us, but as they get older, it’s sometimes unclear how. Managing their “firsts” is all we know to do.
Right now is the perfect example of this. My daughter graduates kindergarten this week from the school she has attended since she was one. As if we don’t have enough going on, her new school’s orientation events overlap with her current school’s end-of-year celebrations. We have already completed her reading and math assessments, toured her new elementary school, schmoozed with mothers about new drop-offs, and scheduled playdates with children who are strangers. We are already working to shift the narrative before her current story is finished.
For me, this all feels rather inorganic and exhausting, but at least I can approach the change with some life perspective. I know about the amazing experiences she will have and how much she will thrive. But for her, this must be so confusing. I can sense it in her line of questions, which shows she is excited, but also frustrated and nervous. She seems stressed. Then fine. Then she’s speaking like a baby. I think she feels the shift all around her, like someone is tugging on a rug she’s still sitting on.
This is what we do, though. We never know how to sit.
When it comes to parenting, our behavior comes from a good place, of course. We just want them to be okay, and pushing them forward is our way of managing their challenges and trying to ease the burdens placed upon them. But does our gentle nudging help? Are we really easing their burdens or satisfying our own concerns about what will happen if we don’t? As adults, we have such a difficult time savoring what we have by always searching for the next thing. We let special moments evade us all the time. We lose the last song because we’re thinking about dinner.
Pushing forward is a privilege that isn’t lost on me. I’ve been thinking a lot about the parents who only have the past now. They will never forget the last meal they served their child or the last silly joke or smile beyond the doorframe of the car. I know I am not the only parent who dropped off their children the morning after Uvalde and studied them running away. My tears didn’t stem from a fear that I’d never see them again, but out of sadness that I’d been too busy pushing to pay attention.
I don’t want to sing to my daughter, if that’s not what she wants. But I don’t control when things stop and start anymore—maybe I didn’t ever. At least I know this now. Maybe there will be a night this summer when my big girl, preparing for her big school, doesn’t feel so big. If I am lucky, she’ll ask for one more song.
Is your baby not a baby anymore?! I’ll cry with you: averagejoelle3@gmail.com.
The little things
This photo snuck up on me. Memorial Day came and went and the workweek was crazy and suddenly I was in person, witnessing one of the last Friday celebrations my daughters would ever have together at this school. My husband was home with the flu, and my immune system was in the sixth round of its own heavyweight championship. Maria, our school’s front desk employee, was reminiscing with me about when Hazel was a baby. Ruby was playing with her mask, a metaphor for what these past two years have been unduly focused on. This photo is one that will remind me of all the beautiful and hard moments we shared together there. I’m just so incredibly grateful for what our community has given our family. Cue the waterworks!
Also
Negotiate your job offers, people. Don’t be dismayed by stories like this, but read Alison Green’s reasons why these rare but disappointing outcomes occur.
Your wins
Kate drove 3.5 hours with both kids by herself and didn’t need to stop!