There has been a lot of chatter on the web about making too much of these minor milestones and celebrating every little accomplishment - so this post isn't about that. It's also not about how adorable and sweet the ceremony was, or how proud all the kids were to sing songs that they'd rehearsed for weeks and show off both their class to their families and family members to their friends.
It's about the simple fact that they were able to do all that.
As I watched parents around me cry at how fast it's all going and how big they are, I realized I teared up as Rebecca sang because I'm a mush - not because I was sad. I may be in the minority, but I LOVE that she is getting older! I love every task that she masters and each day that she learns something new. I love hearing her sing along to songs on the radio, telling stories of what happened at school that day and playing and talking together all day long (she really does talk all. Day. Long.). She is hysterical and creative and brilliantly smart and it is (ahem - mostly) so much fun to be around my big girl.
Which made me realize something sort of awful - I don't really like babies.
I mean... of course I loved MY babies (eventually). And I love holding babies I can give back to their mommies after a little while. But given the chance to hang with a real, true KID? SOLD.
I just need more feedback and help than a newborn can give. I remember when I was dressing a fairly new Lila, I asked her to push her arm through the onesie. I was so used to dressing a 3 1/2 year old that I had forgotten how helpless newborns really are. That not only did she not comprehend my words, she also barely had the muscles to clench her fists into balls let alone maneuver them through her shirt.
Truth be told, I don't like feeding babies every few hours, stopping every few minutes to burp them. I don't like the way their head bobbles or their eyes roll around and don't focus. I don't like the questions surrounding what they are or how they might be feeling (Gas? Teeth? Poop? Hunger?) or every thing that they do and whether it is okay or not (the answer? It might be or it might not. No one knows anything for sure about babies.). I don't like the books you read for help that leave you more panick-stricken than you were originally because your baby won't eat twelve ounces in twelve hours (or whatever that particular book says). In fact, I want to write a parenting book called F$&@ the Books. But that's a different post.
Now that she is nine months old, and Rebecca is "PreK4-girl" as she has requested to be called, I almost feel at peace. I watch Lila crawl and pull herself up and know that any minute now she'll be walking all over our home. Make no mistake, she is still a baby, but she is acquiring skills every minute of every day and I relish watching that happen. And then I turn around and see Rebecca play with Lila and make her laugh constantly. I listen to her make up imaginary scenarios and marvel at her brain. Make no mistake about her, either - she has her moments / tantrums / sass and it's not all sunshine and roses - but my family is complete, and growing up and I absolutely love it.