She Can Melt Your Heart

A Nice Mommy Moment Involving an Egg

The other day I was quickly baking cupcakes, when Emmy asked me if she could crack the egg. I've never taught her to crack an egg, and in my rush, my gut reaction was to say, "No, not now." And there would have been nothing wrong with that. But for some reason, I decided to let her try. She carefully tapped the egg until there was a perfect crack, and then when she went to open it, she just crushed it in her hands, leaving an eggy mess all over the countertop and floor. This would have been an easy time for me to say, okay, that was enough. Instead, I handed her another egg, and said, "try again." She tried again. This time, she held it over the bowl, and most of the egg, with only one shell, made it in. She was proud and she happily helped me clean up the mess.

I was glad that I let her try.

Emmy Ballerina

Emmy's first ballet class - she loved it!

When did you first become a grown-up?

This question was Real Simple's prompt for their latest essay writing competition. I didn't end up having time to write and submit something, but I did like the question and decided to write a little something just for the heck of it:

“You’re just a baby having a baby,” an older gentleman remarked to me while we were standing in line at the grocery store. He was a kind, crusty old man who insisted on carrying my groceries for me and helping me into my car. To him, I probably looked about sixteen, though in actuality, I was twenty-five. Twenty-five and 9 months pregnant, joyfully expecting my first child. I certainly didn’t feel like a baby having a baby.

I felt ready. I’d figured out how to have the “happiest baby on the block” (I practiced my swaddling techniques using a teddy bear); I’d taken the baby’s car seat to the local police station so that they could make sure it was properly installed; I’d bought everything on the list. I was as ready as I’d ever be and I felt quite grown up.

In fact, I’d tried to be as grown-up as possible about the entire pregnancy. I was a high school teacher and I did my best to be professional about the whole thing. I hid my morning-sickness, almost vomiting on passing students as I walked/ran down the hallway to the restroom. After episodes like these, I’d smile my brightest smile, trying not to let on how awful I was feeling. I’d smile until the final bell rang and then collapse on my desk, often falling asleep in a hunched position at my computer. I’d wake up to find myself with my head down on a stack of papers to grade. I’d get up, eat a snack, often throw it up, and then get back to work. During lunch breaks, I’d set my cell-phone alarm and secretly take naps in my car. Somehow, I managed to get through that first trimester and I was proud that I’d managed it without telling anyone.

The rest of my pregnancy was thrilling. I eagerly read weekly emails informing me of my baby’s progress. I celebrated as the baby within me reached the size of a walnut, a lemon, and a pomegranate. I imagined my darling in utero sleeping, hiccoughing, and wiggling around. My students knew that to distract me from discussing symbolism in The Great Gatsby, all they had to do was ask about the baby and I’d soon be sitting on my desk, discussing baby names. (I figured the discussion was half-literary since the names Daisy and Jordan came up.) When we learned that we were expecting a girl, we were over the moon. Since both of our parents and grandparents mainly bred boys, we figured we would too. But a girl! I soon saw the world through rose-colored glasses and Matt envisioned himself being happily wrapped around his adorable girl’s little finger.

And so as the due date came and went, I didn’t fuss over waiting a little while longer for her arrival. I felt comfort knowing that she was happy in her warm, nutrient-filled world. We enjoyed our “bonus days” with movies, mini-golf, and time with friends. And when the time finally came – 5 days overdue – for her to be delivered, we were ready and excited.

Nothing can really prepare you for the moment when you meet your child for the first time. I knew I would love my girl. But I didn’t know how overwhelming and how all-encompassing and how absolutely sudden this love would hit me. As I held my warm and slippery baby, I cried more than she did. It was all I could do.

As transformative as this joyous birth was, when I look back on it now, I see that I really was just a baby having a baby. My child’s entry into the world did not mark me as a “grown-up.” I learned to take care of Emmy and everyone else took care of me – particularly my mom. She flew in from Cincinnati and made it to our apartment on the evening we’d arrived home from the hospital. Emmy was her first grandchild and she was enamored with her. What a happy few weeks we had, as my mom made dinner each night, kept our place clean, and held Emmy between feedings so that I could take warm baths and catch up on lost sleep.

We could have continued this idyllic existence for a long time, but too soon, the day came that she would have to leave us to take care of ourselves. We hugged goodbye. I tried to be strong. I stood by the window, holding Emmy close, and watched Matt wheel my mom’s suitcase to the car. I watched her climb into the car, could see she was fighting back tears. I waved and watched as they drove away. When they turned the corner and were out of sight, I gave in to my sadness and let myself cry. Soon, though, Emmy started crying too. We cried together, and as I did my best to calm her, I found that I became calm. A part of me wanted to indulge myself – to curl up in my bed and cling to my sadness – but I chose her instead. I had a baby. A baby that needed me to take care of her – a baby that needed me to be a grown-up for her.