The last 16.5 months of my life have been amazing. As Moira grows, I grow as her mother.
Some of that growth is fun. She learns new words. My heart melts when she says, “books!” first thing in the morning. She loves to swim. I love to swim with her.
Some of that growth is not fun. She gets new teeth. I learn that going to dinner with her at 8:30pm is a terrible idea, even on vacation. She learns to wait. I learn not to fear meltdowns in public (because, like many other animal instincts, fearing only makes them more aggressive, while not fearing seems to pacify them).
Somehow, Lewis and I thought that things with a baby would either be happy-sunshine-fun (him) or miserable-scary-impossible (me). For the past 16.5 months so many of our date nights have ended in the same conversation.
“I don’t understand this…intensity that I feel,” I say.
“I just wish you could relax and not let things bother you,” he says.
Then I freak out that I’m freaking out. Obsess on not obsessing. Get intense about not wanting to be an intense mom. …