My love for my son is no less fierce or intense. But yes, it is different. Part of this is clearly because of their 3.5 year age gap. For example, communication: My daughter has a stunning vocabulary for her age and a wisdom that is hard to put into words. My son is just learning to speak. It is easier for me to relate to my daughter in many ways, because she can tell me how she is feeling and what she wants and she will sit down with me, whereas my son uses non-verbal communication, his dozen words and a lot of running.

But, as I said, my love for him is unquantifiable. Just this morning the four of us were up early and all cuddled on the couch in the basement, listening to my son’s new favorite song (and let me tell you, he makes it known) and I kind of nuzzled up to his head and inhaled him, like people do with newborn babies. He smells delicious. I can’t describe it, but I got so lost in that smell, I could have stayed there forever.

But if we are being really, truly honest, which I always am, I think that the part of my relationship that mixes me up a bit is the fact that he was born and I subsequently lost my mind. So my feelings about our introduction are a combination of bliss, gratitude, joy, terror, sadness, pain, guilt and some PTSD. Once my mental health started to improve and I was left alone, again, to take care of my son, I thought, “How am I going to do this? How will we work?”

My little guy has surprised me from day 1 of his existence in my womb, and hasn’t stopped. He cracks me up, for in the span of 3 minutes, he will steal my kale smoothie, switch the Living Room TV to a setting that I can’t figure out how to fix, take apart my bathroom vanity, while marching around, bag of pretzels in one hand and blowdryer in the other. (This is what he did after lunch today.) He just tried to race his Matchbox cars over my computer keyboard. He is just different than I am. I am lazy. I like to play chill games. He likes to go go go go go go go go go go.

But something hit me today, as I got dressed, and I was inspired to journal it, as he deserves it. I wanted to write about him. My closet happens to be in my son’s bedroom, so as I picked out my outfit, I sat him on his glider and talked to him. “I’m just putting on my shirt now! What do you think?” And I smiled at him as broadly as I could and he smiled back, with his entire face. I ran to the bathroom that is across the hall from his bedroom and waved to him. He continued to beam.

“We are doing this,” I thought.

This, this period of time right now, is an odd one; This is not what I expected from my life, and I feel the entire spectrum of emotions when I think about it, ranging from extreme sadness to pure happiness. This morning, on that couch, my head in his hair, I was as blissful as anyone could be.

And then there are other times, when I am trying to figure out my path forward, and I get down.

But I realized today that I have this constant reminder with me; My little strength symbol.

I want to be happy, not just for myself (in fact, I put myself last, but that’s a whole different story), but for him.

So right now I am sitting on the floor of the basement, perched on his “Anywhere Chair”, typing, as he runs around, playing trains, sliding down the rollercoaster, handing me a plastic croissant and saying, “Apple, mama?” as he shoves it into my mouth, climbing on the furniture and continuing to mess with yet another TV. I am now listening to the sound of my home phone dialing.

But we’re doing this.

And even though I just had to get up from my chair on the floor (despite my inherent laziness) to hang up the phone because he actually did just call someone, we are doing this.

And so I am going to go now. Not just because he is dialing more numbers, but because I want to give him my time. I want to play with him, cooking together in his fake grill. I want to help him to do a puzzle. I want to smell his head.

So, it may not have been the easiest path,

and every single day still has it’s challenges,

but I get to smell a heavenly head, and see a huge smile that has all but 2 teeth filled in, and laugh at the little drop of milk that gets caught in the cleft of his chin and live in a constant state of surprise and amazement and awe.

And I get to continue to learn, from my baby, how to be strong.

(Our respective perches. At least for this second.)

Update: My mom just called.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Nothing. You called me? I got a missed call from your home phone.”

My son freakin’ called my mom.

“His first call to Bubbie!” she exclaimed, so excited.

“He is delicious.”

And I have to agree.

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My son woke up late, as a treat, and my daughter followed me into his room to change his morning diaper.

“Today is the day!” she beamed.

“I know! Today is the cookie party!” I answered, referring to our plans for the special Pollyanna party with our best friends.

“No!” She cried. “Today, Bubbie and Zeydie come home from St. John!”

My parents have been away for two weeks. Despite our best efforts to make up for our missed trip, she missed her grandparents an extraordinary amount.

They spoke on the phone every day, and, evidently, on one such conversation, hatched a plan for her to have a sleepover at their house on the night of their return. It didn’t matter that they wouldn’t land until nearly 5:30, when we usually start bedtime at 6, or that they had just been gone for two weeks and had a long day of travel; they all needed this date.

She counted down the hours.

Fortunately, she was able to fill her day with plenty of fun; a trip to the library to see zoo animals and out to lunch with her friend (who, as of yesterday, may be her boyfriend. There was a kiss.); our Pollyanna party with a house filled with best friends and more cookies than any of of us could count.

But she had her eye on the prize.

I got a text from my dad shortly after five letting me know that they had landed and I told my daughter.

She threw her hands up in the air and shouted, “I’m free!”

(Whatever that means.)

When the party broke up, she went up to her room and she packed her suitcase with care, and the help of her GodMama , who had stuck around post-party,

as my husband drove to get my parents from the airport and her godfather and I cleaned up the kitchen.

And, finally, after a seemingly endless two weeks, Bubbie and Zeydie walked through our front door. Both of my kids freaked out, but the excitement between my parents and my daughter was incredible. With barely a glance behind her, she went off to their house for their date.

I didn’t hear from her the rest of the night (except for a quick call to say “Goodnight”) but I did follow her evening on Instagram, courtesy of my dad.

First, there was a bubble bath; then, spooky stories in Bubbie and Zeydie’s bed; then morning episodes of “Scooby Doo” in bed and making pancakes with Zeydie and doing laundry with Bubbie.

She was so happy, as for her, my parents are a part of her sense of home. 

I was up in my bedroom with my son when she got home. I heard small footsteps coming up the stairs and heard my door open slowly.

“Your missing puzzle piece is back!” she said, and climbed onto the bed and into my arms.

How could one child hold so much wisdom; so much love?

From where does she get these things?

“How was your time?” I asked.

“Amazing.” She said, telling me stories, some true, some potentially “elaborated”, like shaving with Zeydie (true), playing the Mermaid game with Bubbie (true) and staring at her brother’s picture and wanting to cry but being able to take a deep breath to hold back the tears (ummmm…).

And she is right; my missing puzzle piece is back. But so are my other missing puzzle pieces. Because as much as I am a grown up, it is nice to have my parents back, around the corner.

And then, today, I met another parenting milestone; I took my daughter to the movies all by myself. This is something that most parents with children my daughter’s age have probably done with great ease and frequency, but for me, it was a marker of how far I have come in the past year. This week a year ago I was at my lowest. Today, I was a grown up, a mom, sharing a popcorn and Sour Patch Kids with my little girl, so that I could expose her to one of my all-time favorite musicals that has been made into a movie.

If you have been a reader here from the beginning, you may recall that at four months old, I showed my daughter the filmed stage version of “Into the Woods” with Bernadette Peters and the kid was mesmerized. One point for “Nature” there.

When I found out that it was being made into a movie (and with some of my favorite actors) I (not surprisingly) freaked out and had awaited it’s release eagerly. And I decided that I would try, today, to take my daughter to see this movie with me.

She and I often watch clips from the aforementioned filmed stage version, as she loves the opening number and “Moments in the Woods”. For that particular choice, we may give a point to “Nurture”.

I found myself extremely emotional during the film. First of all, I thought it was excellent. Second of all, the music is incredibly evocative for me and “The Baker’s Wife” is my dream role. But, most poignantly, I was hit with a case of the feels every time that the movie made a point about parenthood. There I was, my daughter snuggled up next to me in a dark theater, listening to Meryl Streep singing,

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You can always spot her in her hiding spots because of her pink, sparkly shoes. (See above.);
She loves to brush her dolly’s hair. And her Sesame characters’ hair. And her own hair. And, this morning, she tried to brush her cup’s “hair”.  And then, I spotted her going towards her giant bouncy ball, waving her hair brush. I had to look away;
Her giant bouncy ball is pink;
She is named for a Disney Princess;
She won’t leave home without her vintage Gucci “Pock-book” and Abby Cadabby;
She sits on my lap, every morning, as I put on makeup, and as I brush and paint, she smells my perfumes and makes faces in the mirror and plays with every potion she can get her hands on;
She almost always refuses to give out high fives, but will show you her shoes every. single. time.;
She cries, hysterically, if I try to change her diaper, but squeals with glee if I try to put her in a tutu;
So, yes, that’s how you know you’ve got a girlie girl…
Or, at the very least, what I know about the girlie girl that I call mine.

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