Emerson had her first real accident on Saturday—of the scary, heart-stopping variety, complete with a bloody face and piercing screams. Though I realize accidents and injuries are totally normal and unavoidable, I can’t help but secretly hope there is some sort of childhood loophole my baby can step through so she never gets really hurt. That silly hope is my way of coping with the (still new) reality of parenthood.

I’ve had to process and accept my role as a mama, bit by bit, since the day Emerson was born. It would be far too overwhelming, otherwise. One of the most difficult realities for me to accept, by far, has been the fact that my child will get hurt, physically and emotionally, sometimes terribly so. It started with having blood drawn from the sole of her tiny, tender foot when she was two days old. I hated every minute of that. Emerson was terrified and sobbing (though she was in my arms) and I wanted to punch the man who was doing it to her. The next stage began when Emerson was four-months-old and learned how to sit up on her own, meaning she began to fall and get hurt on a regular basis. I couldn’t stand watching her head smack into the floor, over and over, but eventually we both became more resilient and less upset about her bonkers (as we call them in our house). This weekend, though, we moved past bonkers and into the realm of accidents and injuries, and I would be lying if I said I was okay with any of it. 

Then there’s Alex. He has been able to maintain an even-keel about all of this for the majority of Emerson’s life. He doesn’t get wrapped up in overwrought emotion when Emerson gets hurt, as I tend to do. He sees the big picture, and tries to remind me that every human being gets hurt, and feels afraid as a result. He reminds me that Emerson will be better, stronger, more resilient and complex for having experienced and dealt with pain. He asks me if I think I’d be the same person if I had remained miraculously unscathed by life. And I can’t deny any of his points, I can’t fault him for believing our child will be fine even after he’s seen her face bloody and covered in mud. But, I am a mama bear.

I am a mama bear, and every instinct inside of me says, “protect this child, soothe this child, scoop this child up and unleash your claws in the direction of anyone, or anything that threatens her.” I am a mama bear, and it took me hours to calm down after Emerson’s accident. I could not stop replaying it in my head, nor could I stop myself from having a highly emotional reaction every time I looked at my baby’s scrapped up face. I am a mama bear, and it will require time and practice to be able to let go while knowing that my child is a human being who will grow into an autonomous adult and will meet her fair share of bumps and bruises, heartache and rejection, roadblocks and failures along the way. 

The most difficult part of all of this, for me, is that I thought I knew pain before I became a mother. But, my child’s pain feels more painful than any of my own. My pain was dulled with that one last excruciating push that gave way to a new life nine months ago. And now I must watch as my heart begins to wander farther and farther away from me until I no longer know its exact location on the globe each and every day. 

As difficult as this reality is for me to come to terms with, my husband is right (and somewhere he’s gasping and wondering if I can print this sentence on a banner so we will always remember the day that I said it). Great things can originate from pain. Take Emerson’s life—it began in the midst of pain. Pushing her out of my body was the most physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually challenging experience of my life. It was also the most significant, enriching, beautiful, and unbelievably exhilarating experience of my life. And I wouldn’t change anything about it. I wouldn’t change the fact that I had to wait three (uncomfortable) weeks longer than I thought I would to give birth. I wouldn’t change the fact that I labored for three days, or pushed for three hours, or had to change my plan. I wouldn’t change that I had to re-experience my childhood traumas in order to birth my baby. And I wouldn’t change that I endured great physical pain. Because, all of that is mine and it deeply changed me in ways that I am grateful for. Given the choice, I would not want to be the person I was before I experienced all that pain. 

So then, would I want to deny my daughter the moments that will ultimately define her? 

No.

Here’s what happened: Emerson fell from a moderately high height down onto her head, splitting open her face on our stone steps. The snow outside had been melting in the sun all morning, giving way to a thick layer of mud underneath it, which ended up completely covering her face.  I leapt after her as soon as she fell, but by the time she was in my arms there was blood streaming from her nose, lips and mouth. As scary as this was for us, I realize that this may not be a life-defining moment, but it meant something to me. Processing it has felt like a nod, from me to the Universe, saying, “okay, I understand my role and know I can’t stop the inevitable.” 

I’m not saying that I want Emerson to get hurt, or that it will EVER be easy to watch. But, philosophically speaking, I know that it’s not going to break her.

And so, I will think about how proud I am of my already strong, resilient girl as I apply Neosporin to her wounds. I will remember how well she handled herself in what was the scariest moment of her life thus far. I will smile knowing she has two supportive parents who will be there when she needs us. And, little by little, I will continue to let her go.

Emerson is only three months away from being a 1-year-old. How can that be?! She has also now been on this earth just as long as she existed inside my body, which is a strange realization that, of course, makes me feel kind of sad. It’s as if time now marks her paces away from me. And quite literally, she’s been taking paces away from me. She took her first steps a week ago, and I’ve got to say that the excitement was very quickly muddied by sadness. I felt my baaaabbby, my first born, my precious tiny being, slipping away into the annals of long, long ago. Long ago that will only become even longer ago, until it’s all fuzzy and I’m waiting by the phone for Emerson to call and catch me up on her life. 

It’s also occurred to me that nothing can ever erase the slight sting of my baby not being a baby anymore. I’ve always heard that somewhere around 18-months mamas begin aching to have another child. But, that’s a new child, a new baby. And while I can enjoy a new baby’s infancy, it won’t be Emerson’s. That time is gone forever, encased in gold and magic with all the things that I hold most sacred to my heart.

But, we’ve moved onto a new phase of Emerson. This new phase will involve teeth that can chew birthday cakes and bubble gum, hair that can be braided and adorned with flowers, legs that can run into salty oceans or dance on the hot pavement in a rainstorm, a voice that speaks of dreams and love. I have been consumed with nurturing my babe thus far, but now I get to watch her emerge. I get to discover her as she discovers herself.


Right now, Emerson is also discovering how things work. Or, more aptly put, how she can make things work. Her favorite pastime is giving our radiators a tune-up, which mostly involves her banging on them with blocks and turning the dials all the way up to five. This has led to my new pastime, which is compulsively checking the heat settings on all the radiators, because while Emerson enjoys the heat at a nice toasty five, her parents can afford about a two. Emerson is adamant that those radiators belong at five, though. As soon as I turn the dial down, she crawls right over, appalled that I have been touching her radiator, and she readjusts it. It’s seriously an ongoing battle.

I have lamented Emerson’s intense “curiosity” and how much she’s grown. I’ve also mentioned that Emerson now loves to dance. Here’s a quick clip of her dancing (it’s so impossible to capture her doing anything, because she freezes when she sees the camera and/or crawls over and tries to grab it. Sigh):

What I Love Most Print

My life used to be immaculate. All of my belongings were intact, pristine, dust-free, tidy. Everything appeared as if it were new even after years of use. I lived in a sea of white—white couches, white carpets, white throw pillows and blankets, white sheets…white, white, white. And none of it was stained. I invested in nice furniture, and polished the unscratched surfaces weekly. My floors reflected the scenery above them like clean, shiny lakes and there was nary a cobweb in my life. There were no junk drawers or secret messy closets. Everything was organized, labeled, color-coded.

I used to be immaculate. My finger nails were always trimmed and my cuticles pushed back. My hair was washed with unnecessarily expensive shampoo that I purchased at the salon I would frequent regularly for cuts, colors, and deep-conditioning treatments. My face was cared for by a facialist, and slathered with only top-shelf products. I put time and thought into picking out outfits. I always knew what was in fashion. I worked out at the gym religiously, walked to yoga class before the sun came up, meditated daily. I got a solid 9-10 hours of sleep every night, uninterrupted.

Now, my life is blemished. There are rips in the bookjackets of all my favorite books, tiny claw marks across my once-prized leather ottoman, butternut squash puree stains on my white clothes, a crimson childbirth stain on my bed, scratches on anything made of wood that lives within the walls of my home. There are enormous divots etched into the floors of my living room from the time I attempted to move a piece of furniture, but couldn’t, because I was 6-months pregnant. I live in loungewear and slippers. My legs haven’t seen the sharp side of a razor since summertime. I use rubber bands instead of hair shampoo. I only manage to tend to my nails when I accidentally scratch the baby. My house is my gym, and wearing my baby in a sling for five hours a day is my exercise machine. My meditation involves rhythmically patting my child’s back with my eyes closed as I repeat my mantra—shhhhhh, shhhhhh, shhhhhh—until she finally falls asleep.

But, there are shared snuggles on that stained white sofa, evidence of infant-sized milestones on the carpet with the pulled apart wool on its edges, nourishment in the pile of paperwork that has been sitting on my kitchen counter since I gave birth, purpose in the duct tape covered holes in my floor. There are moments of triumph in my slightly widened hips, laughter in my overstretched belly button, inspiration in the split ends I’ve neglected, devotion in the seemingly permanent dark circles underneath my eyes. There are minutes and hours and days of my sweet angel’s life that I could not reclaim had I remained immaculate.

There is a life here where there used to be none.

Emerson turned 8-months-old on Saturday. Her advancing age never ceases to take me by surprise, nor do her emerging skills cease to amaze me. Typical first-time mama, right? I’m really loving the stage we’re in right now, notwithstanding the terrible teething woes and complete lack of sleep on account of said woes. Alex and I have been saying a lot lately, “we really lucked out with this baby!” That statement is not at all meant to imply that we’ve had an easy time, or that she doesn’t challenge us in numerous ways…..or that I never find myself wanting to scream. But, she is a good baby. Overly picky and demanding, at times? Yes. Stubborn as they come? Sure. A long list of emotional needs? Mmm hmm. (Wait, this is starting to sound an awful lot like me….). But, she is a good baby. She goes with the flow, adapting to being isolated indoors in the middle of nowhere with only her mama for days (or weeks) on end to suddenly finding her house filled with nine loud, intense family members to having no fear when she meets a dog for the first time (oh, how she loves her auntie’s doggy!) to cuddling up to my family with full trust because she somehow senses that they are important to me.

I feel so proud of the person Emerson is becoming—the person she is, and has been. She’s been tracking about two to three months ahead of the curve in reaching all of her milestones since birth, and I’ve never found myself shocked by it or felt like it’s an overly big deal (other than feeling unprepared for each new stage). It just seems to make sense, like of course Emerson would do something like that. She is my little old soul. She doesn’t have time to be a baby, she’s got plans. And I can’t wait to see what those plans are.

So, the big news last month was that Emerson started to crawl and stand up at 6-months-old. She has now begun her decent into the world of walking—again, not at all surprised, but must you really begin to walk at 8-months-old, Emerson?! She has made several attempts to stand without holding onto anything and adorably surfs our furniture (walking from one end to the other while holding on). I am trying, in earnest, to enjoy these last days before she begins to walk, because I know it will be slightly totally painful for me when it finally happens. I’ve had a hard enough time dealing with Emerson’s crawling and ability to leave a room without me (not that we allow her to ramble around the house on her own, but she certainly tries to).

The incredible thing about moving into yet another new phase with Emerson, is to watch her become confidently independent yet able to express her love for me more intensely. So, while it’s sometimes sad to see her not need me for long stretches of  time, she makes up for it in the maturity of her love (enormous kisses, long cuddles, lying on top of my body as she nurses). I think we both need these “check-ins” with each other in order to allow our relationship and dependence/independence to evolve.

One other thing that is quickly changing is Emerson’s awareness. I started making a list of my personal faults that I’d love to take to a therapist and say, “here, please help me get rid of these before I permanently scar my child!” From the small to the large, I am constantly noticing my behavior now….mostly, because Emerson is noticing. She is my audience when I am having a bad day, lose my temper, accidentally (or sometimes intentionally) swear, go to the bathroom, blow my nose, interact with my husband, on and on and on. And she wants to learn. But, what do I want to teach her? Certainly not everything I’m doing! We all want better for our children, and though I know Emerson already has it a heck of a lot better than I did, I want better than the better she’s already receiving from me. Some of this speaks to the abyss that is my personal background and my fear of recreating any of it at all, and some of it is the mere fact that I cannot stop swearing altogether nor can I stop losing my cool when Emerson digs her hands into a pile of poop.

Happy 8-months, baby girl!

On 12-12-12 Emerson turned seven-months-old (I know, I’m a little behind in posting this and it’s not my finest piece, but the holidays are a comin’ and my mind is jumbled). 

The past month has been an explosion of milestones. The week of Thanksgiving, Emerson started to crawl (across the room instead of just one or two steps), she popped her first tooth, and then a second, she started standing, she started eating solid food, and she became even more verbal (we’re still waiting for her to grow some hair, though;). All I can say is hallelujah! I’ve mentioned that life with Emerson has been quite challenging the past month or two, and I had a hunch the entire time that she was gearing up to make some major changes in her life and that she would remain frustrated until she did. I had no idea it would be this intense and so much all at once, but it sort of makes sense given her personality. So, it was milestone central up in here for about a week and now Emerson is the biggest bubble of joy—smiling and laughing and singing (cutest thing EVER) all day long. Her little big spirit is so enchanting, she commands attention. When in a silent room, she begins to sing and talk to all the strangers around her. Needless to say, she’s becoming much more of a person than a mysterious baby creature.

I will note that while Emerson is much happier these days, it’s still not easy. Because, is it ever easy? I’ve been relieved (at least temporarily) of whining patrol and soother of constant woes, but now I’m on safety surveillance all day long, doing what I can to make sure my crawling/standing little wonder doesn’t severely injure herself. And I’m still not getting much sleep with all the tooth popping going on around here.

Also highly notable to me as a mother, is the fact that my sweet baby is suddenly very independent. She still needs me and wants me all day, but things have definitely shifted. I have become very emotional (yes, more than usual, if that’s possible) and hugging her tighter than before (when she lets me) ever since she started to crawl. With mobility comes distance….between us. Right now, that distance looks something like me sitting on the floor while Emerson plays by herself. Every so often, she looks back at me to make sure I’m still there— she gives me an enormous smile and once I smile back (aka, confirmation that all is right and safe in the world), she continues to play. At first, she would only crawl in circles around me, not daring to move more than an arm-length or two away from me. But, as the days wear on, she’s more confident, more adventurous, and her strong body takes her farther away from me. Sometimes she seems to just want some time to herself. And other times, she wants to be a part of anything and everything I am doing. She crawls all over me, gives me wet kisses and puts her tiny hand on top of mine while I do whatever it is I’m doing (she likes to help). She’s my little mini, standing next to me with a huge smile and I just know she feels a little bit more like my buddy and less like my baby now. As nostalgic as I am feeling, though, I would never want to give up the moment I am in to go back and have her be a tiny baby again (okay, maybe just for an hour), because I would miss the person I am spending my days with now. She’s not just a warm, snuggly bundle of cuteness, but a person. A really awesome person. And I get to hang out with her all day. Our bond is too strong now to ever want to trade it for anything. 

More than anything, though, I can’t believe we are on the other side of six months. Up until this point, I felt like my baby was still a baby. Now, it feels like one year will creep up on us before we know it….perhaps that is because Emerson’s development has picked up speed rather than the slow, less profound milestones of those first few months. We’re on a crazy, fast moving train over here. Sigh.