Tiny Parts

Okay.  This is going to sound pretty awful, and I'll ask you to suspend judgement until you hear me out, okay?  Here goes: I'm really not a big fan of babies--specifically the tiny ones (or "freshies," as we call them in our house).  I mean yes, they're cute and all, but beyond aesthetics, what's to get excited about? Perhaps I'm projecting my own experience with my own "freshie" onto this situation--aren't we all guilty of that?  Byron Katie tells us that, "The world is my perception of it.  I see and hear only through my story." We all process events through the filter of our own experience, and my experience with my freshie was, well, really, really hard!  The lack of sleep was soul-crushing in its sheer unrelenting-ness (just made me up a word there).  The feeling that I was completely and utterly responsible for keeping this tiny person alive was a responsibility that, even at 36, I felt monumentally unprepared for.  The sheer not-knowing-what-to-do left me doubting my decision to procreate at all.  But then, in between the crap times (literally), there were glimmers.  "Look at those tiny little fingers.  Look at those tiny little toes..."

As I gradually came to accept that my life would never, ever be the same as it was (thank God), and as my freshie gained the ability to hold her head steady and even (occasionally) smile (those first smiles are like gold to new parents), there started to appear some positive payback.  All I asked for in those early weeks and months was some kind of sign--anything--that what I was doing was being well-received.  The fact that my newborn survived was one sign that things were going to be okay (because I know that sometimes they don't and there's no rhyme or reason to it--it's just what the universe deals out, like cancer, or earthquakes).  And those early smiles--those precious, infrequent, validating smiles--were another sign.  I could do this.  We were going to make it, my freshie and me.

Last weekend, I was honored to get to meet the newest addition to my Bellingham tribe, Miss Grace Ann Larson-Pahl.  She was only eight days old when she arrived for her photo shoot.  I ask you.  What in the hell is cuter than this?  And meeting her stirred up all sorts of emotions for me.  "Oh, shit.  I knew I should've had another baby.  All the 'cool' moms have two--or more.  I mean, really, it wasn't that hard, was it?"  But then, near the end of our photo shoot, Grace started to fuss (like most divas at photo shoots tend to do), and my sane self shoved her way back into my head.  "Hold on a minute here!  Are you serious?  You're 43 years old, with a killer job, only one small bathroom and not a hell of a lot of time on your hands.  People have finally (finally!) stopped asking you when you're going to have another baby, so let's enjoy what we've got, sister, which is a manageable life!"  Yeah, you're right.  But still...

My sane self is right.  I can appreciate babies, and appreciate the hard work their parents are doing (and that work is really, really hard, and the parents that I know do it really, really well), but I can watch from a distance.  I've been there, done that, and now I get to sit back and fully, whole-heartedly experience what my own freshie (not so fresh now at the ripe old age of seven) brings into my life each and every day.  But a sincere thanks to Grace's parents, who let me document her first days on this planet.  In her I see the possibilities of the future.  I feel comforted that life will go on, and she will get to experience all of the joys and hardships of being fully human.  And I also feel a huge sense of relief that I will never, ever have to go through that stage in my life again!  

Comments

[mollysue]

Awesome work here! Grace's parents are so lucky to have those pix.

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