When Infants Become Toddlers and Sedans Become Minivans

Jonathan registered for Spring Semester classes yesterday. While I was on the computer and the phone with Jon trying to figure out his schedule, Netty also wanted my attention. I was trying to play with her as well, but apparently I wasn't doing a very good job at it. Netty screamed at me once, and then crawled away. I thought perhaps she had just decided to go play by herself. Nope. She pulled out the three laundry baskets that I keep under the bed to serve as drawers for my clean clothes that I don't hang up. She proceeded to stare at me with a scowl on her face while she pulled each and every item of clothing out of those baskets and throw them. For a minute I was in disbelief. Here was my sweet baby girl being . . . a toddler.

So this morning while Netty was sitting on the floor, holding her own bottle, and mimicking the noises on her Baby Einstein movie, I started to panic a little. Next month Netty will be a year old. Atticus is en route. And we're getting a minivan. Suddenly I longed for those days when Jon and I would picnic at Porter Park until 11:50 p.m. when I'd drop him off at his apartment and go back to mine, or when Jon and I would move the TV into our bedroom stay up all night watching movie after movie simply because the next day was Saturday and we had no reason to get up before noon, or when we'd sit on the couch and feel Netty kick and imagine what it would be like to be parents. Now we're in the midst of parenthood, but unlike many of my siblings, there's not an end in sight. There's no, "Oh, it'll be so much easier in three years when they're all in school." It's all, "Well, maybe you'll be done having babies in fifty-seven years. Good luck with that, and try not to go insane in the process. And if you're going to die, try not to break your fall on one of the children."

While typing I am looking at a picture of Netty at two months old that sits in a frame next to the computer monitor, and my heart just melts. Of course my massive, hyperbolic overreaction is fueled by hypochondria and pregnancy fatigue. Having spent a few days away from Netty last month, I realize that I am a total wreck without her, and I wouldn't trade my life for anything in the world.

Here's to looking forward, not back . . . .