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| Soon I’m gonna be 15. |
Time is skipping by.
Actually, no, that’s not quite true. Time is racing, speeding, and zipping by- faster than a two year-old can unravel an entire roll of Charmin toilet paper.
Susannah is already three months old. And Nora is edging ever closer to actual big kid-dom.
Zuzu is making sport out of outgrowing newborn clothing…and three months clothing…and certain three to six months clothing of the fancy dress persuasion…
With Little Nora Thumbelina, we had her wearing outfits well past whatever the tag would suggest. 6 month pants on a one year-old. 12 month onesies on a two year-old. Even a pair of [mislabeled?] strawberry bloomers that said 3-6 months but were worn just the other day. Outfits stuck around for so long that they became members of the family. Inside jokes. Part of the furniture.
With Zuzu, I’m lucky to have her wear something once so I can say she did so. Before it gets thrown on the Little Baby Girl pile. It’s done a number on my sentimentality and Susannah’s patience. (She doesn’t care for sleeves.)
Things that were the epitome of cute on Nora sometimes look a little forced on Suzy. And stuff that didn’t quite work on Nora are just right on her younger sister. As I shove her little arms and legs into Nora’s favored critter oufits, Susannah will give me a look that seems to say- I’m a different person, Mom. Stop trying to shove me into some sorta box. Or panda overalls.
And I promise her- fervently- that I will always [try to] remember that she’s her own gal. But she still has to wear socks.
Zuzu appears to be popping at least one tooth. Which is crazy. But she’s apparently gotten the memo that she’s doing everything on fast forward. And while- sure- it’s absolutely zero fun to soothe her through the drooly, achy, gnawy pain, it’s even less fun to realize that she’s careening through her babyhood.
Soon she’s going to be bolting down the hallways, shrieking alongside her sister. And then they’ll both be going to school and leaving this [cluttered, noisy, messy] living room startlingly quiet. I imagine they’ll go off to college, allowing me to have the pristine and organized home that I so loudly feel I deserve on a daily basis.
And I’ll remember back to earlier this week when I refused to let Nora do the glitter all by herself (because of The Floors! Think of THE FLOORS!) and instead held on tightly to each part of the paper and glue, rushing that activity along to get to lunch, to nap, to bath, and on and on and on.
And I’ll think of how I looked over impatiently at Susannah’s whines while I was attempting (again) to mop the kitchen- only to lock eyes with her in her bouncy seat and elicit the world’s happiest coo and smile of recognition. Because- whereas she couldn’t give a fig for how full the washing machine was- having me stand still long enough to reassure her that I was still there was the bee’s knees.
As I put Nora down for her afternoon nap yesterday, she patted me on the back and told me that I was a good friend. I kissed the top of her wild curls (smelling like a perfectly natural combination of sunshine and maple syrup) and almost decided to forgo the nap.
“Come on, kid,” I almost told her. “Let’s go throw glitter all over the couch. You can even hold the container.”
But I didn’t. Because there was writing and cooking and sanitizing and diapering (and more sanitizing) to do. Besides, a Nora without a naptime is not anyone’s “good friend.”
I wanted to, though. That should count for something.
Today Nora has her first ever honest-to-goodness class. It’s a gymnastics class, which speaks volumes as to how I’m letting my kids do their thing without placing my fears directly atop their miniature heads. For I am terrified of heights, being upside down, and having my face broken. And gymnastics embodies the threat of all of those things for me. But seriously- the girl is a wild animal with little to no actual fear of danger (unless she actually has to converse with the danger first). She needs to learn a good tuck n’ roll. Monkey bar skills that her Mama could never teach her.
And how to stick a dismount that would make even the Russians proud.
Zuzu will be there, too. In the sling since, after all, she is still a baby. My baby. Watching her big sister- my other baby- learn to do stuff without her Mom’s help.
And I’m already proud of her. And incredulous that I have one beastie this grown already. And another hellbent on racing her.
And covered in glitter. For we are all covered in glitter. (Even when it’s me holding the container.)
Tidiness is overrated, anyhow.
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