When we do stuff that we've done as an annual tradition this year, I find myself thinking back to the previous year, when I was pregnant. During the holidays, I couldn't have cocktails and didn't feel like hanging out with people who were, for example. During my birthday, I didn't celebrate with my usual zeal because staying up late in a smoky bar to sing karaoke didn't sound fun at all. Last year during our annual tubing excursion, I hung out on the sidelines and took photos. But in addition to missing out on some fun stuff, there was this sense of purpose and an air of excitement and anticipation to everything. The phrase "this time next year..." was uttered on many occasions.
Well, here we are. This time next year.
I'm a mom. And I feel like one, in all the great ways - I feel like a grown up. I feel responsible. I feel the joy of helping to create life, deliver it into this world and nurture it with all of my being. And all the not so awesome ways - what IS this extra roll and when will it go away??
But now I find myself thinking "This time next year...she'll be..."
I think of my life in terms of the milestones of this other person. This person who began inside my body, the size of a sesame seed, and who is now yelling, rolling, standing with just a fingertip of support, eating near adult-sized portions of oatmeal and seemingly taking the term "leak proof" as a serious personal challenge. This person who might go on to be a champion snowboarder or rocket scientist or supreme court justice. Or a pothead. Or a career criminal. Who knows.
Hopefully in a couple of years she'll be excited about stuff like snowtubing. I really can't wait to do stuff like that with her and I'll be pumped if she really likes it. I can tell you one thing. She doesn't like going to bed.
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