When he and I both are exhausted, it doesn't bode well, until one (or both) of us either takes a nap, or gets some coffee (That's me, not the Monkey. I like a baby who sleeps.) My moment of truth occurred when my Monkey grabbed his cup of milk before I could get the lid on it, and it spilled everywhere, including parts of my kitchen I had no idea existed. I lost my cool for about five seconds (an occurrence which my toddler has decided is hilarious, just like his Father. I may not live past the age of 40, unless military schools are now admitting toddlers and/or 40-something spouses).
I tried to get my former baby, Ginger Sue, the Cocker Spaniel, to help clean up the milk on the floor, thinking it was a win/win for both of us (Don't judge. You do it too, whether you admit it or not; otherwise, there would be no moms with pets.). But she just looked at me blankly like, "WTF are you talking about??? Clearly you're having yet another one of your meltdowns, and I just can't deal anymore!" I wanted to cry, and yell, and start throwing things, and maim my husband (who, of course, is working diligently in his office across town, having no idea what's going on here, but we all know they are never innocent...even if they're not here!).
That's when I looked at the clock, and it hit me: This time last year I had just trudged through twelve hours of active labor, with no medication. Twelve hours.* And here I am now, one year later, literally about to let myself cry over spilled milk. So I stepped it up and gave myself a pep talk. I thought about my Dad's Mom, who raised 3 children--one of whom was cognitively disabled--in the 50's, when it was not only socially acceptable to institutionalize children with special needs, but it was a bit taboo to raise them at home. She said, "Nope. He won't see the door to one of those places, while I'm alive!" And I thought about my Mom's Mom, who raised two girls all alone, while her Marine husband was dealing with frostbite during the Korean War. Sometimes they had money for groceries, and sometimes they didn't.
It seems a little over-the-top to consider such harsh realities and compare them to my own, but it helped me realize that all I have to do is make it through this one day, and do my best to make it memorable. I don't have to have a baby (already got one) or a blood transfusion (been there), or an epidural (done that). I don't even have to stay up all night tonight, and I didn't last night. I certainly don't have to worry about grocery money or the health of my child.
If we (as moms) are honest with ourselves, the first birthday really isn't about the child at all. It's about us, our memories, and a few photographs that we hope our children can cherish later. My son has NO idea what's going on today. He only knows if he's tired, hungry, or happy. My job today is the same as it is every day: to keep him in the happy state as long and as frequently as possible. It's very unlikely that he will remember this day. But I will. So I have to choose what type of memories I will be making for him and for me. Now that he's napping, and I'm sipping my coffee, I'm hopeful that I will choose wisely. If not, at least we'll have some nice pictures, and someday I will have a much more selective memory.
*Yes, I know many of you give birth naturally, feed your kids only things that grow out of your garden, live in energy efficient tree houses, and run Fortune 500 companies. That's great for you, and I'm soooooo happy for you! Bless your heart. But that's not me. At all. I fall somewhere between needing a Tylenol for a hang nail and being able to set my own broken bones, but I'm much closer to the hang nail end of the scale.
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