I lost track of you this last year. Call it pregnancy brain if you will. I stopped making breakfast for you in the mornings, because I was too nauseated to toast bread. At night, our bedtime chats cut short because I was too large and uncomfortable to fit in bed with you.
You were ever patient.
You didn’t want to upset me.
You brought me ice water to quell the nausea.
You let me sleep when I needed to sleep.
I’d like to believe that my stellar parenting instincts helped you be the person you are. You, this lovely, perceptive person who is all at once elegant artist, nimble acrobat, ardent travel companion and the best big sister a baby boy could ever want.
This year has not been easy for you.
Pregnancy was tough. I felt sick and exhausted all the time, and having a new baby, even with squishy baby smiles, is hard. I woke one day to realize I’d lost touch with you and your life. I have always been there, yes, but not always truly present.
You kept it from me when you were being bullied at school. When the other kids spit on you, stole your things and kicked your books around, you said nothing. You came home smiling, saying what a great day you had and not a word about how sad you were that no one wanted to play. You thought they were your friends and tried to overlook as they hit you, called you names, left you feeling like nothing.
But when you were home, you were happy. We baked cookies and watched movies. We went swimming when the weather turned warm. You tested my pregnant superhero power to detect the flavor of ice cream from across the room armed only by smell.
Then Charlie arrived.
Seeing the difference between you and a baby makes me realize how much you’ve grown. Charlie lives his days with a complete faith that he will get what he wants. He cries; we appear. He points; we go. You, dear Lila, are told to wait, hold on, be patient. “He’s just a baby. You should know better.”
You are finding that the titles of friend and family don’t automatically bring with them love and consistency. You are learning to measure people by their actions instead of their words. You are understanding that those on whom you depend will let you down. I am so sorry that someone has sometimes been me.
You, Lila, are a beautiful person. I would happily spend a quiet day baking or gardening or painting an old stove. I love you not because we were chosen for each other by genetics and birth but because of the person you have become.
Do you remember that morning in La Spezia soon after we left New York to travel? You were four. The rain sheeted down and thunder cracked so loudly I thought the windows would break. Knowing you’d be frightened, I climbed into bed with you, and you clung to me as we counted the seconds between lightening and thunder. The greater the number, the further away moved the storm. First they crashed one on top of the other. Then five seconds. Ten. Twenty and soon enough the storm traveled elsewhere.
Parenting is a continual process of separation. You want to hold tight to those moments as they become memories, but memory dances and breaks so unreliably.
You, Lila, my traveler, my acrobat, my baker, my artist, my love, could I have done more to build you up? Did I reinforce your sense of self love as I should? Did I provide for you what you needed? Underneath my mother guilt, I intuit the answer is both yes and no. We do what we can. I do what I can.
It rained heavily again this morning. You were not with me, though. Charlie, instead, lay curled and warm against my stomach as you left for school wearing the parakeet green rain slicker we bought together in La Paz.
The baby Lila is long gone, only pictures and words on paper to remember. So I let go. But know, my sweet, wherever you go, however you grow, no matter how distracted I may be, I will always be here in whatever flawed way I can.
Happy Birthday, Lila-Bean!
