Yesterday, I took Blair to her one year doctor's appointment. Although the assumption may be that I had this down pat the third time around, I still struggled with holding her in one arm and finding a clean diaper in my overloaded diaper bag with the other. I still stared at the weight and height chart, trying to make sense of it all wondering if she was, "ok." My body temperature still rose significantly when they told me she had to have three shots. Oh, and also a finger prick to test for lead since I have absolutely no idea when the house where we reside was built. I still felt like I might vomit all over the doctor (and extra nurse that they had to bring in due to the unexpected strength and resistance of this little 19 pounder) when I had to look into my daughter's eyes as they held her down and pierced her skin (three times) knowing that this is one of her first true encounters with suffering. A story came to mind that I read lately. Some people training in compassion focus on this image: a mother who has lost her arms watching her baby float down the river. Vomit. Compassion. And I did think of all of the mothers the world over who watch their children suffer in much lengthier and grave circumstances.
Amidst all of this while holding a very unhappy strong little person, the doctor started asking me questions: is she saying words?
Not really. Sounds, yes. But not words. Does she know what you are talking about, like for example when you say you have to bring something to the trash?
I'm not sure. Maybe? I really don't know.... But does she say baabaa or daadaa or mommamomma?
I guess. Sort of. Not really....
You catch the drift.
And there I sat. In the doctor's office with a poopy diaper in my hand thinking,
well, I guess this is what people mean when they say time goes fast. I wanted to shout to the doctor,
"she is just a baby! Give her a break!" And I literally felt like my baby that I was holding in my arms was all of a sudden a toddler and I wasn't quite sure what to do.
Worry invaded my heart and throughout the rest of the day I was trying to get her to say words and follow my directions about trash cans. I was even trying to teach her manners at the dinner table. I took to recruiting my five year old to aid me in this direction (which, of course, she took very seriously, "
ok, Mom. I will. What do you want me to teach her?")
And then this morning, as I watched my one year old dance in the bathtub to "Give Love" (awesome song by the way! Download it!) with a huge grin on her baby/toddler face, I had this thought: when we allow worry about another being to come into our heart it inevitably blockades authenticity because we are looking to that other person to either validate or eradicate our worry. So I dropped the worry. And I danced with my two littles in the bathroom. Phew.
