I realize it's been a long time since I've blogged. I'd like to say I've been busy, but that would be a blatant lie. In reality, I've been spending my time doing things like reading books about toddler-rearing, facebook chatting, and trying to put my house back together after the holidays. I hope this post comes out slightly coherent, but as I type I'm having to drone out a very loud Barney video, so don't be surprised if my sentence structure ends up reading the way Yoda talks. Forgive me, you must.
I'd better hurry up and get to the point here, because I've got exactly 30 minutes before the DVD ends and I have a bored and crying child on my hands.
The most pressing topic is the significance of today. It's my son's First Birthday. I've come to the realization that first birthdays are as monumental an occasion for the parents as they are for the kid. In parenting, you don't get many indicators that you're doing a good job. You pretty much have to wait until the child is 20 to see if they're a total loser or not. There are no performance reviews along the road. But landmark birthdays (and as far as I'm concerned, the first is a MAJOR landmark) force you to do some introspection and consider where you've come from and where you're going.
The first year of a child's life involves more growth and change than any other (and I'm not just talking about the baby). They start out totally helpless, and you start out totally clueless. Exactly one year ago I was 8 hours into my eventual 20 hours of labor. I didn't know which way a diaper was supposed to face. (The cartoon characters and "Pampers" logo go in front, for those of you without children.) I'd never rocked a screaming child. And I'd never met anyone for whom I would willingly gain 15 pounds.
Fast forward a year, and I've survived postpartum depression, two emergency room visits, seven teething sessions, and nine "love" pounds. My child is happy and healthy (despite having been dropped once). I still don't really know what I'm doing, but I learn a little more every day.
In one year, Jackson went from being a screaming blob to being a curious, clever, solid-food-eating creature. He only has five words in his vocabulary and he can't really walk yet, but I enjoy him so much more now than I did when he was first born.
If I can impart any wisdom as a result of my trials through my first year of motherhood, it would be this: there's no such thing as maternal instinct. I assumed that upon the birth of my child, the skies would open, and all the mysteries of nurturing, breast-feeding, diapering, and soothing would be unlocked for me. I've watched enough nature shows to know that even moronic animals like deer, rabbits, and pigeons have mothering instincts.
Not so with humans. We have one weapon of defense against our own ineptitude: LOVE. Okay, I'll grant that it's a pretty good thing to have, but considering the mothering skills given to crocodiles, you'd think our superior species would have a little more in our repertoire.
Anyway, there you sit with this helpless little thing, terrified out of your mind, but at the same time overcome with the absolute knowledge that you would lay down your life for this tiny little thing without so much as a nano-second of thought. You don't know how to make the little bundle stop crying, but you know with the certainty that gravity exists that your soul is now living outside your body.
Fortunately, the hospital will teach you important things like how to bathe him and buckle him into a car seat, but otherwise, you're on your own. It's you, your baby, and an ocean of love vs. The Universe. Am I being dramatic? A little. But you get my point.
Amazingly enough, the vast majority of babies manage to survive their parents' idiocy, so maybe John Lennon was right, and all you need really is love.
A year later, I've figured out what most of my son's cries mean. I know how to get him down for a nap without entering into World War III, and I've baby-proofed the house to provide a safe environment for my little dervish. Despite this, I could fill a library with the things I still don't know.
My sanity is questionable, my hips will never look the same, I have circles under my eyes, I haven't seen a movie in the theater since Avatar came out, and I'm in perpetual need of a manicure. But I have Jackson. And I thank God every day for that.
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