Yesterday, my daughter had her 4-month-old check-up.
This meant getting her weight,
measuring the circumference of her head,
having the doctors and nurses ooh and ahh over her cuteness,
and,
of course
shots.
Now, I went into the appointment feeling like an old pro.
We had been through this before.
Except, this time, it was a different nurse.
So, when I asked her if she was gentle,
and she looked at me like I was crazy,
I decided to leave it at that.
Two little pricks,
a few big “wahhs”
and it was over.
What a trooper.
And my baby didn’t do so bad, either.
But, the vaccinations were not the most memorable part of the check-up.
Not by a long shot.
Do you remember how I told you about my daughter’s snuggle nest?
Oh, beloved snuggle nest, how I miss thee.
You see, my daughter has now grown out of her (our) favorite sleep station.
I guess the fact that she was able to roll out of it became a bit of a problem, as well.
It’s not like I cried when I had to zip up the nest and put it into storage, OK?
Or, so what if I did?
I’m not admitting to anything.
Well, do you also remember how I told you that my daughter was moving into her crib?
Yeah, well, that hasn’t quite happened, yet.
We’ve tried.
Oh. How. We’ve. Tried.
But, she doesn’t seem to love it in there.
I don’t seem to love her in there.
My husband and I had a little fight about it.
He said she needed to be in her crib.
I said I needed to be in her crib.
He said no way.
I said I’m climbing in.
He told me I was going to have to pay for a new crib when I broke hers.
I said thththththththththth (which, in case you didn’t know, is the sound that comes out when you stick your tongue out of your mouth and blow).
We were at a stale-mate over our bed-mate.
And so, we decided to compromise by having her sleep in our room, in the porta-crib.
Before you go wagging your fingers,
let me explain myself:
I know I’m the one who just posted an article on the importance of raising an independent child. Trust me. I want my daughter to be as independent as can be.
Except for when she cries.
She cries,
and I melt .
Literally.
Melt.
Melting even writing about it.
And so, clearly I had to ask the pediatrician.
We needed his help.
He asked me for how many minutes I would be able to let her cry.
I told him zero.
He told me to try ten.
I told him OK.
I had crossies.
But, fortunately, he continued.
He explained to me that I will not be hurting her by letting her cry, nor will I be spoiling her by consoling her and letting her fall asleep by my side. He explained that, even if she cries herself to sleep, she will not become a delinquent, sociopath or monster. He also assured me that she wouldn’t think I was abandoning her.
“I guess we have to do it,” I accepted his advice. “She really has grown out of her nest.”
“Yes,” he explained. “And now, she will be able to fly.”
And then, I cried.
On the inside, at least.
He articulated it more beautifully than I could have imagined.
I had kept my daughter by my side for four months, swathing her in the safety and sanctity of her little nest (o-snuggles).
The time has come for her to learn to soar.
The time has come for me to learn to let her.
And so, my daughter walked out of the office with two hot pink band-aids, a new plan of action, and a lollipop,
which she so generously gave to me.
So, we both shed some tears yesterday,
but I think we’re each better for it.
And I hope, that even at this very, very young age,
my daughter knows that it is more than OK for her to soar,
that her feathers are there for her to fly with,
and that, no matter how far she goes,
her little nest will always, always, always, be right here,
waiting for her,
when she lands.