I’ve become one of those people. You know, one of those people who’s always marveling at how time flies. People like my parents: “I can’t believe you have a child of your own. Seems like just yesterday you were pissing all over YOUR bassinet!”
I can’t believe I have a child of my own either. Why, seems like just yesterday Mr. Candy and I had a few glasses of wine and shrugged, “Well, we’re not getting any younger. Wanna try?” (A beautiful story to share with Skylar one day.) Now here we are, more than ten months later, celebrating our daughter’s fourth week on Earth. Skylar has not only turned me into a “how time flies” person, but also a more selfless and patient one. In fact, I’ve only flipped the bird at another driver ONCE this week. Yes! It’s true. Because that’s the kind of upstanding role model I want to be for my daughter: one who only gives the middle finger when it’s truly deserved. (Yeah, I’m looking at you, Mr. Asshole Mercedes Driver.)
Okay, so my language is another story. Baby steps, people. Baby steps.
I’ve also become a worry-wart. It began the moment I got pregnant, then became exponentially worse when they first handed me this tiny, squirmy human being. Like, how could they entrust ME — a woman who thinks ice cream sandwiches make a perfectly acceptable breakfast — with this little person’s life? I was certain I would hold her the wrong way and break her like a twig. Or worse! Give her an ice cream sandwich for breakfast when everyone knows babies are only allowed to have them for a snack once they’ve finished their Big Mac and fries.
Color me shocked to realize I am capable of raising a baby (so far, at least) and — SURPRISE! — embrace doing so with an ease I didn’t expect. All of my fears, about how a baby would change my life, how she would change me, how I would have to downgrade from stilettos to more practical two-inch heels, have dissolved. I am a mother now. Period. I am a person who uses words like “pump” and “Hooter Hider” without a second thought. I am a person who MELTS at the sound of her child cooing — when, not that long ago, only the sound of a margarita blender could have that effect on me.
Of course it STILL blows my mind that this little person is my daughter, that she came from my womb. I mean, really! As I keep saying, that’s some crazy shit.
Again. The language. I KNOW.
Happy four weeks, Miss Skye — by far the best four weeks of my life. Why, seems like just yesterday you were only three weeks, six days old! Oh, wait…