Life is moving too fast, and I’m constantly worried I’m not paying enough attention. I should be writing this all down but then something else comes up and the moment slips away. So today I’m going to stop being a blogging perfectionist. I’m just going to make a list of things I wish I had written about.*
Here’s everything I can think of, in no particular order:
- Starting my own business
- Tom graduating from law school
- Tom starting bar review the next day. Poor Lucky Me having to learn how to not be a total brat while he studies.
- Hazel’s trips to the beach
- My brother, sister-in-law and nephew’s 4th of July visit
- Hazel learning how to spin until she’s dizzy
- Hazel getting closer every day to talking by getting her animal sounds down pat (there was a lot of swooning by the adult crew when she “mooooo’ed”)
- Me worrying about a whole new set of disasters as a business owner
- Hazel starting daycare
- My renewed interest in running
- Tom getting closer and closer to the bar; my pride watching him study like he was born to pass this test; my continued struggle not to act like a brat
- The day I bought a potty and let it sit in the bag for two weeks while we contemplated how grown up Hazel was getting
- Hazel’s favorite hobbies: bashing her head and face into stuff, torturing the dog, kissing the dog, dancing, getting pushed on her vintage tricycle (only in the backyard until I find a helmet and attach the seatbelt), waking up at 5:45 and pointing at the TV for cartoons, dragging her bag of baby golf clubs around the house in search of the one baby golf ball that came with the set.
But the biggest thing I want to write about is how much of her own self Hazel is. I thought when you had a baby they would be very much like you, almost like those plants that if you cut a piece off and put it in water a new plant grows. I thought that’s why people put their children in beauty pageants and pushed them to play sports or whatever they didn’t get to do as children. Our reality is that Hazel seems to have arrived on the planet as her very own person, with her own ideas and jokes and a passion for the most disgusting fruit on the planet (bananas) that genetics just can’t explain.
Sometimes I understand why people believe in God, or magic, or why I keep going to a psychic. You watch this little person, this little Herself, and marvel at the mystery of our time on the planet. So often I feel like a cave-lady, wondering how the natural world fits me in, wondering how the universe delivered this person into my arms. And even when she’s biting me, or elbowing me in the throat while we nap together, or launching her face into the patio, I sigh with relief that she somehow found her way to me.
*and maybe I still will!
