late bloomer

I have often been struck by how un-parental I can be, like how I didn't really want to be a stay-at-home mom or how I eschewed breast feeding (yucky). Even more un-parenty is how I seem to be so very thrilled at every new achievement of Baby Girl's that makes her less dependent on me to do things for her confirming what I had always suspected about my own parents; they only had children so that one day, someone else would empty the dishwasher.

When Baby Girl learned to crawl, hurray, no more having to move her around like a potted plant or having her scream endlessly about the toy that was just outside of her reach. When Baby Girl started eating solid food, I was mentally calculating how much money we would save on the reduced amount of formula. When she learned to feed herself, hallelujah, no more having to coax her to eat or making stupid plane sounds. When she learned to walk, I was thrilled that my back might finally recover from the months of hauling her around like a sack of potatoes. This was so unlike other mothers that I talked to who seemed saddened by their children's creep toward independence. They would say things like, "I miss giving Emma her bottle" or "I really loved the bonding of nursing Connor". I would of course, nod knowingly as if to say, "I so, know what you mean" when I was thinking "are you freaking kidding me?". What really happened when Baby Girl no longer needed the bottles? I threw them out without a second thought and proceeded to myself a margarita party (for one). However, if I ever let that little internal monologue out into the open, as I have done by mistake on a few occasions, I get this quizzical look that clearly conveys the fact that I have just revealed myself to be a TERRIBLE MOTHER, I might as well have casually mentioned that I was a part-time porn star or kept a switch in the family room for "discipline". That is until yesterday morning when IT HAPPENED.

I was in the closet getting dressed and Baby Girl was happily watching Miss. Spider on the bed when I peeked around the corner to check on her and she was gone. This was unusual, so I called her name and she yelled back, "I'm in the bathroom." I went out to have a look and Baby Girl had not only just gotten up and off the bed and gone to the bathroom, she had put herself on the potty and was reading Dr. Seuss. She looked up from the book and nonchalantly asked "what, Mommy?" and I said, "what are you doing?" and looking at me as if I was the village idiot, she said "I'm doing a stinky Mommy, GO AWAY".

That's when I got all verklempt, because Baby Girl had just, of her own volition realized that she needed the bathroom, gotten up off the bed, managed to get out of her clothes, had the wherewithall to know that she might be some time and grabbed some reading material and then put herself on the potty. That, people, is independence and that was when I got all "oh, my god, she's so grown up" and "where did the time go" and all sad and drippy like a complete and utter LOSER. The unfortunate truth is that I now know why Connor's mom misses the bonding of breastfeeding and Emma's mom is wistful about bottle feeding. I am clearly just a late bloomer when it comes to these things. Where it took other moms months, it has clearly taken me years to develop the wistful, sentimental thing which makes me wonder what other parental pitfalls and anxieties I have avoided out of parental immaturity but that are bound to hit me like a ton of bricks at any given time. Am I going to start getting broody and wanting another child? or even, gulp, wish that I had stuck out the breastfeeding thing? but the even more unfortunate truth is that I can't really share this story with other mother's because it's not cute enough like the bottle thing or the breastfeeding thing; I mean, could I be any grosser - I am getting weepy over poop. What's next, missing her wiping her drippy nose on me when she finally learns to use a tissue and blow like a normal human being?