Sisyphus Ain't Got Nothing on Me

Dear Adeline,

You just turned three months old several days ago. I'm pretty sure some kind of warping of space-time has occurred, because last I remember, you looked like this:

Peanut Butter

I called you peanut butter for a couple of weeks because you were so unbelievably tiny (like a peanut), and so squishy (like peanut butter).

And now, well, take a look:

Squishy Baby

You've grown your way out of two sizes of clothes already. You're so much more alert, and give the cutest smiles. And just two or three days ago, you started cooing - to other people, to yourself, and most often, to these guys, your carseat BFFs:

Endlessly Fascinating Friends

I could probably wax philosophical about how it all goes so quickly (because it does), but today I want to tell you about what it's like to be your parent. Lest it sound like I'm complaining below, know this: being your parent is the most amazing thing ever. I'm especially fond of the way you seem to reserve your biggest smiles for me (don't tell daddy). I know that's probably as much about you associating me with, you know, lunch, as it is about any kind of special mother-daughter bond, but I'll take it.

Especially in light of the day-to-dayness of this whole parenting gig. Being a parent of an infant, I've decided, is the ultimate Sisyphean task. Feed you, change your diaper, mop up spit up, change your clothes, change my clothes, change more diapers, pace until you fall asleep, throw in some laundry, feed you, etc., etc. There's a certain homogeneity among our days together. Even the unpredictable is pretty predictable, if only in the sense that I know you're going to catch me off guard in some way, even if I don't know exactly how.

(Today it was the six or seven times you released a not unsubstantial waterfall of partially digested milk all over me and you and whatever we happened to be standing next to at the time. If that sounds gross, it's because it is, but it's also just part and parcel of the day. You also might think I would have been a little quicker on the uptake and had a burp cloth stashed on my person at all times, but you'd be wrong.)

Where was I? Oh yeah, Sisyphus. I read an essay the other day that contrasted the "jobs" that go along with parenting with the relationship among parents and children. The gist of it was that nobody signs up to be a parent because they really, really like doing the same things over and over, only to have those very things undone, which necessitates them being carried out yet again. For instance, I put you down for a nap, and you wake up five minutes later (not even kidding). I somewhat grudgingly pick you back up when you start becoming more vocal about your discontent and we recommence rocking-pacing-singing-nursing-bouncing. Good times.

But here's the thing: parents put up with the "jobs" of parenting because the relationships they get to have with their kids are mind-blowingly amazing. It's true! You haven't even been around all that long, in the grand scheme of things, but from the moment you arrived, I reconnected with this heady mix of love and amazement and gratitude so powerful it left me a little breathless. There was fear in there too, honest fear that comes with the knowledge that I'll screw up as your mom more times than I can count. But on fear's heels is also hope and confidence that we'll be able to repair the screw-ups and forge ahead.

I'm going back to work in just a few days. Even though I sometimes feel bogged down in the minutiae of raising you (and I cannot emphasize enough how much I wish you would nap!), I don't yet feel ready to pawn those jobs off to someone else if it means I'll also be missing out on the good stuff. Somehow, amidst all of the mind-numbing repetition, you've hooked me. You've hooked me good.

Maybe I was wrong about parenting being a Sisyphean task. Poor Sisyphus didn't get any sort of ancillary benefits from rolling that rock around. If changing your diaper means I also get to know you and see you develop into yourself, so be it. (Also: one last plug for a nap without being plastered against me in some form, okay?)

Love,

Mama