An Itch That Needs Scratched.

I’ve said it over and over again, to my friends, to Jason, to other mothers, even to Addy: I think I will be better at this when she’s a little older. Once the lines of communication are actually open, not blocked by an incoherent language and cries with no reason and so much spit-up my shirt is soaked through. Not that I don’t have countless moments every day when I cherish Adelyn’s tininess, her helplessness and her irreplaceable need for me. I can’t help but think it, though. This part right here, this true infancy part, this is just me doing everything in my power to make sure she’s okay. I should do tummy-time more, but I can’t take the crying. I should be reading to her more, but on the nights where she’s inconsolably cranky I just want her to finally fall asleep. I should be, by now, able to figure out what’s wrong at the first sound of her cries. Because some women can do this, this part, with their eyes closed. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen them soothe a baby within seconds and laugh while they wipe throw-up out of their hair. I am not usually laughing. I’m usually cursing the fact I bothered washing it at all, if it’s just destined to become another bib.

When Adelyn is awake and has been fed and is in a good mood, my world is joyous and my spirit is high. That’s all it takes. All it takes is seeing her smile at me, her grin so wide that suddenly a giant “squuuueeeee!” escapes from her lips because she can’t take any more excitement. Just from looking at me. Those moments make you forget the rest of the nonsense.

But I’m still counting down the days when I can be a creative mother, not just one who feeds, burps, rocks, and sushes. I want to teach her things, for her to understand me, for me to understand her. I want to read her books and listen to her ask questions and try to answer them.

Adelyn is napping in her swing, going on an hour and a half. About twenty minutes ago I tip-toed into the living room to grab a phone number I’d left on the coffee table and just the sound of the piece of paper rustling against my fingers woke her. Great, I thought. She spent all of yesterday not napping and being terribly unhappy about it. And if she doesn’t get a good hour and a half nap this morning I’m in for a repeat. I stood still for a moment, out of her eyesight (if she sees me the nap is done for, she starts squuueeee!-ing instantly). And then she reached her little hand up and scratched a spot on her head. She did it again. Then a third time, and she turned her head to the side and fell back asleep.

I cannot explain how remarkable it was to witness that. It was the first time I’ve seen her react to something that was irking her by fixing it herself. Her head itched so she scratched it. It still itched so she scratched some more.

This is what I’m excited for, teaching her how to fix these little things. Step one, scratch the itch on your head. Lesson well-taught.