Posted by Duff

(written 7/20)

“I don’t know who the hell we think we are,” my husband said, as he mimed devil horns behind the Dervish’s head.

He was referring to us considering having another child when our first is more than we can usually handle. 

She hasn’t been feeling so hot. Well, unless you count feverish. She is also teething, drooly, and constipated. So you can’t blame her for being shrill and inconsolable. So much about how she feels and lately, so much of what she does, seems totally out of our control.

Two years ago today, I was in the middle of my induction, and broke into tears a number of times out of frustration (we weren’t getting anywhere) and fear (nothing like waiting for the unknown but having a feeling it means pain). I was powerless against moving forward with this process.

Like all moms say, it was well beyond worth it.

Two years later, the Dervish is acrobatic in her endeavor to remain her own person. She has never appreciated restraints of any kind. I struggle to preserve her boundless spirit within the confines of safety and discipline. Her carseat is a rocketship. The nail clippers are her personal beauty parlor. Let’s throw socks in the laundry basket instead of cups at my head. Please don’t let me run out of ideas. I have so much left to do.

We, her parents, are the potential providers of her future siblings, should we be so lucky. At least we can control our intent in this instance, even if the outcome is out of our juridiction. So now what?

My husband pulls the Dervish in a wagon. She is wearing an orange sunsuit and a frown. Her curls are wilted. She, like her parents, has had enough for one day.

“So,” I say to him. “Even after the day we just had, do you still feel compelled to move forward?”

“Oddly, yes,” he admits. “I can’t even explain why.”

I am so relieved. We are on exactly the same page. That’s really the best you can hope for.

…….

Written 7/21:

The Dervish pads into our room at 4:47 am with mouth owies.  The hellish fever is, thankfully, gone. But that doesn’t signal that teething is almost over. It means textbook hand, foot and mouth disease.

Happy Birthday, I tell her sweet face.

Get up, she chirps back, beating the neighborhood birds to the punch.

This child’s parents are lunatics. There is no other explanation.

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