It’s a sappy title, but just roll with it.
Babies are so small when they come out (although they don’t feel small when they’re coming out, which is another post/rant entirely). And everyone tells you “the baby year goes by so fast,” and you’re thinking, “NOT FAST ENOUGH” because they’re screaming and they want to be attached to your chest twenty-four hours a day. Or they’re a little bigger and kicking you in your Family Bed (Of Pain) and you’re not getting any sleep ever again and you just want to be alone.
Then they get a little bigger. And they want to help. And they drag all the clothes out of the dryer (when the clothes are still wet) or they smear dirt clods around on the floor while you’re trying to a) ignore the dirt clods or b) finally sweep those dirt clods up. They want to help pick tomatoes in the garden, and they pick all the green ones.
But this helping thing. I know it’ll “go by so fast,” but I’m actually kind of digging it. For awhile I felt guilty doing housework (and guilty reading and guilty writing and guilty checking my email and guilty doing anything that wasn’t hanging out with Z when she was awake, which is all the time), but at least now housework is safe, because I can involve her.
So even when she’s rubbing a dirty dishcloth on the clean bowl I asked her to rinse off, or picking perfect seedlings instead of weeds (this hasn’t happened yet but I anticipate the winter garden – or lack thereof), I’m swallowing my impatience (tough pill) and trying to be happy because even in these dinky little chores, she’s learning, and she’s hanging with her mama, and that’s all the little girl really wants.
Bless her heart.
(Okay, so this post was sappy after all. I didn’t plan it.)