I never once presumed or judged or questioned, you know, when moms wrote or talked about guilt and motherhood. It was just that I knew I hadn’t really experienced it yet.

Now that AG is a toddler, now that my job has become more demanding, I am.

Yesterday AG fell sick. Again. She’s been sick every month, like clockwork, since August. And she’s fine, but I’ve had this thing my whole life, remembering how in-the-way I felt as a child whenever I was sick, and vowing that my child would never feel that way.

And so it’s hard when, at 5 pm, on the night of the week you arrange to work in the office as late as anyone needs you to, to learn your kid isn’t responding to the usual Motrin/Tylenol methods, starts shaking and you’re not there and there are two more meetings you scheduled and it’s the nanny taking care of her, not you, and juggling how one or both of you is going to take the one car you share to get to the doctor in the southwest suburbs from downtown to figure out what the heck is NOW causing your kid heartache.

I know just how lucky I have it, in terms of managing things. This isn’t about that.

But the guilt I feel leaves me gobsmacked on days like this one. I am the cliche – no one gets enough of my focus anywhere so I feel like everyone loses, including me.

No one can be everything for everyone all of the time. That’s just common sense. But common sense flies right out the door when its staring in the face of conversations about leaning in or being left out or just leaving altogether and letting someone else bother with the business of ceiling breaking because seriously? I’ve got a two-year-old who is miserable and keeps pleading for “Mama cuddles, ok?”

And it’s not like this all the time, of course, but I think that’s mainly because on most days you can balance the needs better. Or that is to say that the detritus around work and family reach a daily détente, one that implicitly states that only one party will demand so much from the motherland. Some days, like yesterday, negotiations break bad.

I like to believe I always make The Right Call, and that means putting my kid first. But I know I’m still wrapped up in the business of work for at least another hour after I walk in the door. Lately I’m clocking 50-60 hours of work a week. Still, I try to be where she needs me to be.

For me it was different when she was a baby, still a bit of a blob, and I was still a bit of a mess. Now she’s so clearly her own little person, and there is so much about her I find fascinating and interesting and being professionally successful doesn’t seem to compare on the days where this fascinating human being needs her Mom.

There’s no answer, of course. And this isn’t the exclusive province of the parent who work outside the home. Most days I forgive myself for the ridiculous shit I do (or don’t do) and make a vow to do better, by everyone. Most days I make conscious decisions to not say yes to things – such as this blog, for starters.

But then there are days like yesterday, days where I cancel meetings, hurriedly collapse my laptop and gather my papers and throw on my coat so I can sprint toward a kid who needs me to hold her for two and a half hours in the dark and quiet so she can get some sleep, and I don’t know how I will ever get any of it right.

YOU ARE TWO. Well, as of this writing, two and three days. As seems to be the case lately, I’m running a bit behind.

I just spent the past twenty minutes, wasting perfectly good writing time as you sleep, looking at a collection of pictures I took throughout this year. Only one thought is clear:

By Fall, you were really and truly no longer a baby.

I don’t know if it was that you shot up a bit – still only 58th percentile for your age, of course, but that’s sort of a given considering your parents are vertically challenged – or that you finally grew some hair but damn-near in an instance that face that had been staring back at me for months and months was all of a sudden a little less round, a little more filled with teeth and expressions and, more often than not, a bump, scrape or bruise, thanks to your daredevil-ish ways.

And maybe that’s the big thing – your personality just began to shine through in ways that, like all parents, we were generally unprepared for. For so long, really, this human being in your life was about you. In some ways at this stage, I suppose it still is, but whether we all like it or not, you’re YOU, not us.

Life this year was still about your milestones – the first time you were able to eat on your own, look at a book, climb a chair, get on and off the bed – but looking back it was primarily about getting those first glimpses of who you are.

You are joyful. All kids, God willing and the creek don’t rise, are joyful, but you seem blessedly so. My wish for you is never happiness, but rather joy. Life is predictably filled with pockets of unhappiness. So, if you’ve known joy, you’ll find navigating those unhappy places a bit less fraught with anxiety. While this state of being is clearly you, I’d like to think me and your Dad are doing something right in providing you a space in this world to express that sort of unmitigated awesome.

You are bold. Lately you have two favorite phrases, “I got it!” and “I did it!” If I ask you if you need help, you respond with one of those two sentences. This development isn’t particularly rare in toddlers; I suspect a part of that joy on display is the direct result of what happens when a human being realizes she has agency over her own appendages and whatnot. But I’ll tell you this much: your Dad and I welcome and embrace this to the nth degree.

Charting your own course, working hard on it and then accomplishing something - whether that’s finishing a book, a term paper or climbing the set of stairs in our house – is life-defining. The world is littered with examples of the sort of people who were coddled and pampered and doted upon, and typically they’re the ones woefully unsatisfied and woefully unprepared for the realities of life. I suspect this need we have for you to figure things out for yourself will find us at loggerheads the older you get and the bigger your problems become, but know this: I have faith in you.

Whenever you think you can’t, I’m here to tell you: you can. Since you were a toddler, you’ve been proving it so. I’ll still be here, though, in case you need to bounce some ideas off of someone.

You are smart. Look, the thing about this age is that kids are still generally on the same playing field. So it isn’t so much that you are “smarter than any other,” but just that you’re clearly showing signs that you’ve got quite a brain developing in there.

You know all of your letters, your colors and you can count to three. You’re grasping concepts – “This is heavy!” “This is hot!” “My shoes are tight!” – and understand things in context. Just days before you turned two, you read you own name, said it aloud and, for good measure, read the word “pig” and did the same thing, without prompting. Two days ago you read the word, “Pooh.”

The other night, as we conducted our nightly - and now somewhat lengthy
but-I-don’t-care – ritual of getting ready for bed, you did something amazing: you started singing with me. For as blown away as I was by your ability to read a couple of words, hearing you sing “You Are My Sunshine” back at me, and realize that that’s what was happening, left me in tears.

You are a good kid. I agree with the researchers who say that to tell a child that they are “good” sets up dangerous emotional precedents in kids. Everyone screws up, everyone makes mistakes. Oftentimes when “being good” is assigned such high value on a kid, they freak out and lose hope in themselves when they do something that seems counter to that identification. Plus, “being good” is a slippery slope to “being perfect” which is an even slippier slope to “being loved,” and I never in a million years would want you to think that pissing me off now and again will mean I don’t love you.

All that said? I am a fan of the well-behaved kid. To a pathological degree, and for that you can blame your Papa. He also has no patience for bratty children.

I do not subscribe to the “children should be seen and not heard” way of thinking. But I do subscribe to the “children should be parented to the degree that when they’re doing something they’re not supposed to they listen” way of thinking. All that said? Sometimes that’s not an option. Kids are human beings, after all, and filled with id and undeveloped frontal lobes. But there is a marked difference between a good-natured kid and one who thinks he’s the center of the universe. I worry daily that with you being an only child we might be setting you up to be an asshole. So far, you understand that when I sternly bark, “Abigail Grace,” you need to course-correct whatever it is you clearly should not be doing. You apologize to Glinny – finally – for running into her or shoving her nose away from you with too much gusto. You smile and are sweet toward those in our lives. Don’t think you need to always be sweet, especially if you don’t genuinely feel that now and again.

This was a tough year for your health. By summer, you were sick once a month with a cold or a fever. Twice we’ve ended up in the ER. None of those cases were ever particularly serious – though holy shit I could do without having to lie on top of you as a catheter is administered – but the monthly colds and fevers are causing us to take notice.

You probably have a visit to an ENT in your future, or so says your pediatrician. I hope you didn’t inherit my sinus structure, but maybe it’s something we can examine and manage now, rather than something you’ll have to battle until you’re 36 like I did.

They say illness brings out a person’s true personality. If that is the case, you are not to be trifled with. I am not going to lie: we gauge just how sick you actually are by how hot-tempered you seem to be.

What’s amazing to me is how easily calmed you are by two things: some episodes of Daniel Tiger and my embrace. There are many things that can turn a person into a mother, to be sure, but for me nothing has done that quite like your insistence on being with “Mama,” or “Mommy” as the case has become lately. I’m hard-pressed to call you “A Mommy’s Girl,” or some such foolish nonsense, but I feel safe saying that I’m your port when life gets stormy. When I hear reports that you’re asking when I get home, or want to look at pictures of me, or even when you’re upset and rush to me first, the feeling is simultaneously heavy and light. And while I still felt that responsibility last year, this year it’s been filled with a whole new intention. Of course, as I said, you’re also as impressed with watching the same episode of Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood over and over again, on the same day, so it’s probably best I not get too chuffed with myself.

This year you “learned to swim,” and if you could you’d jump in and out, in and out of the pool for forever in and a day. You love to run, now that you can, and while you’re in mid-run, you yell out, “I’m running! I’m fast!” You can put on your own socks, your own pants, sometimes a shirt, but never all in one shot. You didn’t get a haircut until about a month ago, and I don’t suppose we’ll be getting you another one until you turn three. You’re still – gratefully – no fan of junk food, and whenever you come across any of it you can’t really be bothered. I still try to find the balance between not making french fries and chocolate taboo and helping you develop a healthy relationship with unhealthy food.

You can navigate any iPad or iPhone, and you probably play with both more than “better” parents would allow. Every night when I come home from work, we watch an episode of Elmo together on it, mostly so I can decompress a little while also feeding you dinner and getting you ready for bed, though now we’re often cuddled up on the couch, me with a book, you with an app, giggling and reading and counting and spelling together.

We find out time together, and showing up is what most of this is all about.

You’ve learned how to pray, somewhat, and we do so together every night. We pray for everyone we know, and then some, especially those nights you ask for “more.” People you are especially fond of that day get a big grin out of you, and you squish your shoulders up to your ears in glee. Your Aunt Kate – “AhNa” – and your nanny remain your favorite people, aside from your Daddy and me.

We started learning to make the sign of the cross, and while you’re still nowhere near nailing it, you do like yelling out, “…and the SON!” with a particular emphasis on the “o,” and at the end you fold your hands and fingers together in a tight ball and yell out, “AMEN!”

It’s pretty funny in church when you do this since, more often than not, it’s largely pin-drop quiet. Nothing like a toddler’s extemporaneous exaltation in a silent church.

I always thought I might be the sort of parent who’d want to shush and silence her kid if she was always clapping and squealing and cheering inappropriately. Always figured that I’d be embarrassed. Like so many things pertaining to the business of raising a human being, I’ve got no time for the luxury of such emotions.

Plus? Everything about you gives me reason for an “Amen.” A million times over, Amen. Amen. Amen.

xo,

Mama

This is sort of the way with me anything, which is why I’m never terribly consistent about things such as half-marathons. I love them as a goal, as a thing to do, but the dedication required to make them anything more than a once-a-year event is a bit more than what I can bear.

Which is why, of course, I’ve signed up for Ragnar in June. And agreed to do the Chicago Marathon later this year. Because that’s what makes a load of sense for someone who, a handful of weeks before the event, would just as soon do algebra than strap on running shoes and head out the door.

I once again haven’t been writing much here – or anywhere, frankly – because I had to come to the conclusion that I’ve got room for one hobby at a time these days. Work is pretty hectic – wonderful, but hectic – and leaves me wanting to be anywhere but behind a keyboard by day’s end. Considering AG doesn’t head to bed these days until 7:30 – 8 p.m., and then Scott and I have dinner together, and to be up for a run or whatever, I’m back upstairs and asleep by 10 p.m.

So, yeah. Blogging takes such a back seat it’s practically hanging on to the tailpipe.

But for those of you who care about training and such things, here has what’s been happening with me:

I am pretty sure that at this point in my training three years ago, when I first ran this half, I had packed it in. I think the furthest I ran was nine miles, and I’ve already bested that so yay for improvement! For the first time in my life – which, to be honest, is really the past ten years since that’s when I truly began running as a hobby – I didn’t train using the beginner schedule, but instead went up an entire notch to Novice 2! I haven’t injured myself (knock on wood) and for as much as I’m not finding the level of joy out there on training days, I’m not so irritated that I’ve slowed down my pace or not challenged myself if the spirit moved me, which is to say, “not much,” but enough that my short runs were still my fastest runs.

In summary: I’ve managed not to quit.

My goal remains the same: keep moving. I don’t suppose I’ll walk much, save for water breaks and the like, but I’m not one to care if I do. I’m closer to 40 than 20, and while I’m not bemoaning that fact, it’s a solid reminder that this is all just for fun, and to keep myself healthy. Despite all of those Facebook memes from running stores and clubs, getting out there and then crossing the finish line is not always a life-defining moment. Sometimes it’s just finishing a race you signed up to do with your friend and a trip you’ve taken with your family.

I’ve got another two long runs ahead of me – 11 this weekend, 12 the next – and then the race. After that, I’m taking a month off to just swim and do yoga and sleep before training for Ragnar. I’m only giving myself two months to train for that thing but whatever. Again, this is not me proving a point. It’s just me running with friends.

Three more weeks. Three more weeks.

It was an early spring afternoon in 2011, when my husband Scott and I had the following exchange in the front seat of our car as our one-month-old daughter Abigail screamed the sort of screaming reserved for my nightmares from the back seat:

“Can we agree right now that we are never going to do this again?” I said.
“Yes,” Scott replied.

When posed with the opportunity to write on the topic of my first child, I find myself almost unable. Because to designate a child as “first” assumes there will be a second. Maybe even a third. But on that day nearly two years ago, Scott and I made a permanent decision that our first child would be our only child.

On that day, we probably weren’t barreling down the south suburban back roads that lazily roll over the manufactured hilly stretches of that area, but it sure as hell felt like it. We’d just run like criminals from a family party, scooping up our inconsolable, red-faced and, what I now term the unfair assessment of the inexperienced, horribly behaved infant, and headed for the safety of our home. Our home, a place that at that point had come to resemble a war bunker, only with less canned goods and, presumably, more contraptions containing empty and expensive promises of lulling a screaming, colicky baby to sleep.

The ubiquitous “they” don’t like to talk to soon-to-be parents about colic. To be fair, “they” don’t like to talk anyone about it. I mean, some of them manage to eek out a sentence or two, but the information contained therein is something akin to a fart you try desperately not to rip in polite company: you drop just enough ass to warn all nearby that something is amiss but run away quickly because you just don’t have the courage to explain it away.

And that’s a foul and disgusting analogy, I know, but so is life with a colicky baby, and we were completely unprepared for it. And I remain, nearly two years later, unbelievably pissed off about it all.

Abigail Grace came into this world during the infamous thunderstorm that followed weeks of snow. We’d only just cleared Lake Shore Drive of the many stranded buses and cars left over from Snowmaggedon when I began to have contractions that stopped and started for days and days and days until my daughter finally decided that, on second thought, she would join us after all. I went through an unmedicated labor for 27 hours before I was given an epidural and eventually the emergency C-section that would bring Abigail into our lives.

For the first couple of weeks, most of our problems pertaining to Abigail centered on my faulty tits and what turned out to be their near-inability to produce breast milk. Once I finally made peace with my body’s shortcomings, and that I was never going to be one of those earth mamas whose juicy, copious bosoms sustained her child and therefore provided the just the leg up she’d need to get into Harvard or land a TV deal with HBO, I really assumed our troubles were over.

“She’s eating four ounces of formula,” we’d cheer. “She was so hungry! God, I can’t believe she was just so hungry!”

In the days after we switched to formula, Abigail gobbled up her bottles, and would subsequently settle down as quickly, and so it was understandable how easily we were lured into a false sense of security. Colic is a sneaky assailant. I can’t tell you when the screaming started; I can only tell you that it did. And it went like this:

[SCREAMING BABY NOISE]

For twelve hours a day. Sometimes more. Usually more. She would sometimes sleep for 45 minutes, she would sometimes sleep for two-hour stretches, sometimes four, and always without exception on our chests, no matter what we tried, but mostly she would just do this whenever she was awake:

[SCREAMING BABY NOISE]

In those days, my inner monologues resembled something like this:

“Dear God. I cannot give her back, but right now I’m going to bounce and rock this screaming, awful human being in the pitch black dark for another hour and I CANNOT BELIEVE WE FUCKING DID THIS WHY DID WE DO THIS OH MY GOD THIS WAS THE DUMBEST FUCKING THING I HAVE EVER DONE and I love her, God, I know I do so help me figure this out but I JUST FUCKING WANT MY OLD FUCKING LIFE BACK OH MY GOD I HATE EVERYTHING.”

And day after day, the endless screaming became the soundtrack to our lives, the only constant, and one night, after braving an evening out with a girlfriend of mine who lived nearby, an evening that included me drinking four dirty Sapphire martinis on an empty stomach, I got behind the wheel of our car, skunked out of my mind.

I cried and cried and cried, and, about a half-block into the drive, realized I truly couldn’t see, and pulled over and cried some more. I just could not go home, and I could not give her back, but I couldn’t take one more day where all that waited for me was the screaming.

After several minutes, I put the car in drive and stupidly finished the trek home. It was, quite literally, only two blocks away but it seemed like miles. I pulled into our driveway, got the car into the garage, and stumbled into the kitchen, into my husband’s arms.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I drunkenly blubbered. “I cannot do this anymore.”

As luck would have it, that evening was the first time Abigail went down in her crib and slept on her own for at least three hours. Without saying a word, Scott got me into bed and for the rest of the night attended to Abigail. The next morning I was faced with a scared husband, a mighty hangover and a terrible scrape on our car that, to this day, I still wonder if I managed to put it there when I pulled into the garage.

Loving and wanting a child – our Abigail Grace – was never the issue. We’d tried for two years to have her, after all. But all children are an absolutely daunting proposition, and the conceit by which we go into having them is a bit galling when you think about it. Those who parent in any capacity will tell you, I think, that there is this moment where the realization of the permanence of parenthood leaves you wounded. You are gloriously broken open so wide, made so raw, that you know your time is up and it is simultaneously the most humbling and wretched moment of your life. The luxury of basking in your own nonsense, marinating in your own backstory, is really, you now understand, for the unencumbered.

Having suffered through and, blessedly, received treatment for postpartum depression, I would never suggest that any woman just nut up and get on with it already. Depression in any form doesn’t work that way, colic doesn’t work that way, and recent studies have shown a strong association between babies with colic and postpartum depression in their mothers.

I do not do well with chaos and I was swimming in a sea of it, not understanding that there were probably a few life rafts out there for me to grab on to. But in the moments when Abigail would sleep? When it was just me, her and as many episodes of Brothers & Sisters as I could get through on the iPad? I would stare at her scrunchy, solemn little face, feel the weight of her tiny body on mine, and knew I had to do whatever it took to find those rafts and see the shoreline again. I was lucky enough to be able to make that determination.

At the risk of sounding glib, “It gets better” isn’t just for gay teenagers. It’s for new parents, too. After four months, as suddenly as the screaming started, it stopped.

Just this past Saturday, Abigail, Scott and I lounged around our dining room table, each of us on our respective devices – Abigail, scrolling through clip after clip from her favorite show, Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood, by herself, on the very iPad I used to get through those dark days. Instead of caterwauling at ear-piercing decibels, Abigail now greets each sunrise – and us – with a hearty, “Morning!” as though she were a waitress in a diner and about to ask us how we like our coffee. Yesterday she learned how to point out her name, spelled out on a sheet of paper among three other options, and in that instant I understood the meaning behind every love song ever written.

When Abigail was about nine-months-old, I was making my way home from the train after work and it dawned on me that I did not dread walking in the door to care for my child, that I’d finally arrived at a place of loveliness, of grace. And in the 694 days since her birth, I’ve wondered if I’ve earned that grace, wondered if there was something I lost with her in those early days. I suppose remembering that you may have repeatedly referred to your infant as an “asshole” on Twitter will have that effect. But I suppose it doesn’t really matter. Our present is littered with laughter and joy and that needs to be enough.

And for all that we now understand about babies, about ourselves, Scott and I will leave the business of breeding to others, and I will stand here on the shoreline, life rafts at the ready for them all.

I live in an area of Chicago where organized activities (read: pay-for-play, literally) are not the norm. We don’t have Gymborees or anything even really close to it, not in the proliferation that they seemed to have spread on the north side of town. And that’s neither here nor there; I would have gladly signed Abigail up for those sort of things earlier on if they were available to her. But we do have the suburban park districts (not to mention our own), and once a week Abigail and her nanny go to our church for a fun little song-and-Jesus program, and now we have a tumbling class that she and I go to on my lunch hour.

Of course, toddlers are tumblers by nature, mine included. The child’s middle name may actually be “Grace” but that shouldn’t mislead anyone. Sometimes she just falls down for no particular reason, as though the forces of gravity were so strong in her general vicinity that she had no choice but to instantaneously kerplop onto the floor. We don’t do any real tumbling, more like structured play and climbing on all sorts of fun equipment.

Abigail loves it and so do I.

On Friday, we made our way into the gymnastics area, and immediately hit the TumblTrack. AG fears very little in life, but things like a big, unsteady surface with a cacophony of children on it tend to send off warning signals for her. As long as she tries something, I don’t care if she eventually ends up being wary of whatever it is.

“Jump, AG!” I cheered. “You can do it!”

And so my girl jumped, hesitantly at first, and then with the sort of gusto that only a human being so overflowing with id can display. Then, just seconds later, two feisty tots joined the track, probably a good year older, and bounced up and down with such force you’d have thought they were born jumping.

“NO! NO! NO!” Abigail crowed, waiving her arms furiously toward them as though she were the maestro of this symphony. “NO! NO! NO!”

Where she learned this is not a mystery. An almost-two-year-old cannot hope to consume a cereal bar or a Cheerio when she’s got a 70-pound Golden Retriever with which to contend. “No! No! No!” escapes from my mouth, several times a day, and it’s always directed at Glinny when the dog is attempting to thwart Abigail’s attempt at a snack. Abigail has learned to employ this tactic for herself, pushing Glinny’s snout away with a firm, “No! No! No!”

But, of course, as is the plight of the only child, she’s adopted this method for any person in the five-and-under set who gets even remotely in her personal space or wants to play with her toys. I don’t know that I blame her for wanting to take charge of her own personal space, and set her own boundaries therein, but let’s not kid ourselves: the kid doesn’t know how to share.

At her age, it’s unlikely that most kids know how to share, but, you know, out of about 40 kids, mine was the only one shouting “NO! NO! NO!” at regular intervals, swatting every small fry within an arm’s length. Mine was the only one who couldn’t seem to grasp the concept that the world is not here to serve her. Mine was the only one who couldn’t even remotely keep her shit together when she saw another kid, across the room, playing with a toy that she’d like to play with.

“NO! NO! NO!” she’d bark, while running toward a sweet little boy who was taking a turn on the tot-sized boat. “NO!”

I’m only remotely ashamed to tell you I totally did not at all like my kid in that moment. I didn’t, but I wanted to grab her by the arm, away from the other kids, and give her a serious talking to. I felt my face run hot with each “NO!” that escaped her usually sweet lips.

We even took a time out at one point, but honestly? That was a display for the other parents. I knew a fat lot of good it was going to do, but hell if I was going to come off as unaware of what a jerkstore my kid was being to their kid. Even for those parents who “got it” – and at least two good-naturedly said to me that their kids have done the same thing – I just couldn’t make it seem as though Abigail was as selfish and earning herself a reputation for being That Kid.

The flush of self-consciousness that ran through me lasted only the course of the hour. I mean, I know what’s going on – it’s a phase, it’s normal for a kid with nothing to compete with, she was taught by me to do this to creatures who get up in her business and try and take away what’s been deemed hers. We immediately took to doing some extra work on sharing, and when her godparents’ girls were over yesterday morning, we made a point out of sharing and put AG in the position of figuring it out for herself.

(She did and everyone played together wonderfully.)

She’s not inherently a little asshole, just a toddler and an only child at that. We’ll work on this like we work on everything else. I will still give her time outs. I will still tell her no, and still encourage her to have agency over her own personal space.

But ugh. I know it’ll be a little bit of time before everyone in her path isn’t being treated like a dog.

There should be stars for great wars like ours.” – Sandra Cisneros

I am not sure I’ll ever be OK with even the idea that someone will break Abigail’s heart, but it’s nice to know she’ll have work like this to turn to, just in case it happens.

“Hiiiiiiii, MAMA!”

Every night, it’s as though I’ve entered stage right of some game show set and there’s my toddler daughter, doing her best Bob Barker to welcome me to the episode already in progress. Her candor is really that spot-on. She clearly as a career option ahead of her.

And every night I mean to hit the record button on my phone before I turn the handle. This voice she has right now, this way about her, I know it’ll change. And it’s not that I think the emphasis will change, though let’s be realistic: God willing and the creek don’t rise, before I know it I’ll be greeted with a grunt or with a demand or a complaint better made with management, whoever that is.

But I forget, or for some reason she doesn’t belt out the ol’ ”Hiiiiiiii, MAMA!” and I have to wait until another time.

Anyway, so last night I was greeted with ”Hiiiiiiii, MAMA!” and then a running commentary on everything I was carrying and/or doing or whatever was in the general vicinity and/or something she wanted:

“Purse! Tie! Pupa (puppy)! Dona-tug (Daniel Tiger, don’t ask how I know how to translate that here)! Wah-wah (water)!”

I didn’t know she’d made the connection to what a “purse” was, let alone know how to say it.

There haven’t been many parental worries I’ve had so far, aside from the usual when she has a fever, or takes a header into the bookcase. But what has sneaked up on me now and again is how in the hell is it that they learn stuff. Obviously I know how it happens, but one minute they’re gurgling and cooing on a changing table, commando-kicking the air with tightly sprung little legs and flapping arms, and the next they’re marching into your bedroom making the sign for “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and asking for the iPad by name so she can play her favorite app.

(We thought this week it was just her asking for an “apple” but now. She’s now clearly saying “iPad.”)

You go about your day, you get used to the routine of being a parent to a little one, and then one day you walk in the door and they provide you a reminder of how the game has changed again, and maybe it’s time to stop being so casual with our conversations.

(Abigail will learn a healthy respect for language, and understand time and place for certain words, and their power, but I feel confident that we’re happy to be part of the majority who’d rather be poked with cattle prods than find ourselves at a family gathering and hear our daughter correctly use the word “shit.”)

I am in awe and wonder of how much she is changing and growing and learning, because of or despite our best efforts. But perhaps it’s time to get a little more focused on recording that boisterous and joyful greeting.

I’d love to say I’ve cracked the code in dealing with it, but I haven’t. I don’t even know if that’s possible.

Or is it?

I mean, she’s gonna get sick. I get that, and I’m not one of those parents who shrieks each time her kid gets sick, though it’s been a really rough end-of-summer/fall/beginning of winter for us. I’d like to minimize the amount she’s sick, if possible, and maybe stave off some of it for myself.

Typically I rest a lot, make some homemade soup, take Vitamin C and drink lots of water. What do you guys do? Are there things you can do for your kids to help them combat some of it? Aside from hand-washing and rest, I’m stumped.

Any tips?

I read that and was absolutely gobsmacked. It really hadn’t dawned on me that someone would think my blog served that sort of purpose. Maybe when I was in my early twenties, and was a bit of a misguided asshat in a miserable relationship at a miserable point in my life, I might have done such a thing, but to think that I’d do that now? Oy. You can’t win.

Even though I haven’t had a presence anywhere online of any consequence in at least five years, it was weird to learn that people were still gossiping about why it is that I don’t speak to a handful of bloggers anymore, or what really happened at my first wedding, or why I didn’t write in more detail about my postpartum depression diagnosis.

(For the record on the PPD? Two doctors and a psychiatrist specializing in PPD, who came recommended to me by my midwife, all diagnosed me with PPD. I just didn’t want to be one of those people who shared every single detail online, and I received treatment for quite some time, and that treatment included more support from our families and more rest for me. Jesus. Some of you really are just assholes.)

It’s true what they say: The stupid, mean stuff you do when you’re younger can follow you for years to come. So even though I have long put the “old me” out of mind, for some folks it’s always going to be 2002. Some of it is karma, to be sure, but some of it is just people with not enough to do.

But all of this got me to thinking about what my resolutions for the next year should be.

Health-wise, this is the first year I have none to speak of. Since doing The Ultimate Reset this summer, my health has changed dramatically. With holidays being the exception, I don’t eat much in the way of animal products, except for the occasional egg. It’s seemed to stave off the chronic stomach pains and bloating I’d always felt, and therefore was self-conscious about. You marry that with plenty of fruits, veggies and water, and it’s been the right combination for me. I have no idea how much I weigh but the dress I bought for Christmas Mass was a 10 and the last pair of jeans I bought was an 8, so there you go.

Once again I’m running the NOLA Half-Marathon and, in another feat I chalk up to the “vegan-ish” diet, I went from running 12-minute miles to 10:20-minute miles. It’s sort of amazing, and I never thought I’d be any faster than I was for all of those years. I’d definitely like to be practicing yoga more, though, and I need to figure that out, too.

Work is good. I’ve had a great opportunity open up for me at work, and it’s revived my spirits in a big way. I’m incredibly lucky to work where I do, and my goal is to be brave enough to fail. I’m doing work I love again, and with that comes the chance to challenge myself.

My family is wonderful. My husband is funny, kind and an amazing partner in parenting. I love my kid, and every single day is, well, not a holiday, but a reminder of how lucky I am that we found each other. I adore that girl, and think she’s about as amazing as they come.

So, really, when I thought long and hard about what I want to resolve to do this year, it’s this:

I want to not give a fuck what everyone thinks. 

When I look at the things that have held me back or hindered me, even gotten me into trouble, it’s my inability to stand on my own and be OK with who I am and the choices I make. I’m stymied by things I can’t literally control, and try too hard to please everyone. Whether it’s online miscreants who I hung out with in chat rooms eons ago or my colleagues or my parents or my neighbors and on and on and on. I’ve lived too long in this little space in my head that continually conjures up scenarios that are not based in anything other than my own insecurities. I’ve allowed that nearly every choice I make to be marred with what someone else will think of it. There are myriad reasons for this, but at 36, it’s just laziness on my part. It’s hard work to not care so damn much.

I don’t want to be insensitive or aggressive, but I’d like to be less of a coward. Thinking that everyone and anyone cares a lick of what I’m doing is incredibly self-involved, and it’s keeping me from being a better person. It’s actually making me worse, since trying to please everyone means you really please no one.

I read something not too long ago that didn’t resonate at first, but upon later thought, surely did: It’s none of my business what someone else thinks of me. Isn’t that the truth? It really isn’t my business. I can first do no harm, but mainly I just can’t make it so I’m everyone’s cup of tea and that’s their business, not mine.

Here’s to minding my own business in 2013…

(I’m skipping a whole host of questions that I don’t normally. Just the ones I feel like answering…)

1. What did you do in 2012 that you’d never done before? Lord. Not much.

2. Did you keep your New Year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year? I did! I stretched and kept healthy habits. This year I want to read a book a week, give up all electronic equipment at least an hour before bed and see the above.

3. Did anyone close to you die? Yes. It was hard and sad in ways I wasn’t prepared for it to be.

4. What places did you visit? New Buffalo, San Diego, San Antonio, Pennsylvania and Athens, Ohio

5. What was your biggest achievement of the year? Work has been pretty awesome. But, really, keeping my sweet girl up and running and thriving feels like the trump card. Around August she truly stopped being a baby and went into Full-Blown Toddler and it’s been awesome to watch.

6. What was the best thing you bought? I hate the word “bought” in this context, but the best money we spent this year was Abigail’s nanny. That woman is a godsend and we’re blessed to have her in our lives.

7. Whose behavior merited celebration? Abigail. Honestly, it’s amazing watching a human being grow up right in front of your eyes.

8. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed? As last year, I can’t take anyone harming and abusing kids. Just can’t.

9. Where did most of your money go? Mortgage, nanny, food.

10. What did you get really, really, really excited about? Abigail Grace. Forever and always.

11. What song will always remind you of 2011? ”Some Nights” by Fun.

12. Compared to this time last year, are you:

a) happier or sadder? Happy, but a bit rough around the edges.

b) richer or poorer? Poorer in some ways, richer in others.

13. What do you wish you’d done more of? Reading and seeing live music. We’ve gotten so much better about date nights so this needs to be a priority.

14. What do you wish you’d done less of? See 2013′s resolution.

15. How did you spend Christmas in 2011? Family, in-town.

16. What was your favorite TV program?  Breaking Bad. Holy smokes. I love that show. And Homeland.

17. What was the best book you read? Oh man, there were a few. Definitely loved The Gift of Imperfection.

18. What was your favorite film of this year? Pitch Perfect was pretty sweet. We’re shit at seeing movies.

19. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2011? ”It’s probably time to throw that away.”

20. What political issue stirred you the most? This election brought me joy, as did how it helped in identifying who The Crazies are.

21. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2011. It’s probably nothing that a hot bath and a good night’s sleep can’t fix.

I don’t have anything particularly new to offer – not many of us bloggers ever really do – but yesterday through someone on Facebook I was led to this wonderful piece up at the Fred Rogers Company Website: Tragic Events in the News. Specifically, advice from Mr. Rogers on how to talk to your kids in the face of unspeakable events. And this, of course, was what got me:

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.” To this day, especially in times of “disaster,” I remember my mother’s words and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers – so many caring people in this world.” – Fred Rogers

Look for the helpers.

I’ve often said since becoming a parent that I no longer have the luxury of unfettered wallow. I don’t have the option to continue to let the past define me or to allow my own demons free reign. Some may argue that we never have such options, but when you’re responsible for no one but yourself, it’s easier to let selfishness slide. The harm it wrecks is a havoc for adults.

I don’t get to cop out because, simply put, Abigail needs me. I won’t be a perfect parent, ever, but in shouldering the task of mothering her is the explicit understanding that I must step up and be present and be mindful and be better for her.

And it’s strange, at her age, to think about how I parent her in this context because in many ways these are things she won’t learn about until years from now. For me, and I won’t articulate this well, how I react to something like this right now, when she’s not even forming complete sentences, feels foundational. Even now, I know, I have to, for lack of a better phrase, nut the hell up.

If I hope for Abigail to be brave, I must be brave. If I hope for Abigail to be faithful, I must be faithful. If I hope for her to be kind, compassionate and smart, I must be all of these things and I must be them right now.

People who suppose to have the answers right now are silly and simple. There are smart people out there, and they’re probably closer than the rest of us, but for now I would never be so arrogant as to suggest that I even have the slightest inkling of how we fix this or we make this world a better place for our children.

But I wake up today and I am resolute that I will not live in fear and I will teach my daughter that the world is really filled with helpers, and together we will look for them. And we will eat cookies while we do.

Oh, come, oh, come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel,
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!