Slipping Through My Fingers

This past summer, I got to rewatch one of my favorite live musicals: Mamma Mia! And since then, the soundtrack has been on constant rotation in our car. I love that Addie enjoys the music as much as I do, requesting her favorite songs and bobbing her head to the beat. The other passengers in our car seem indifferent, but Addie and I—we rock out: “Dancing Queen”, “Super Trouper”, “Take a Chance on Me”... One song that grabs me in particular is “Slipping Through My Fingers”, which describes so poignantly a mother’s bittersweet regret over her growing daughter. And as I mouth the words, I steal a glance in the rearview mirror and spy my own little girl who is slipping through my fingers.

Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Do I really see what's in her mind
Each time I think I'm close to knowing
She keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time

Addie is currently three and is such a vibrant ball of sweetness and spunk. Dancing, twirling, singing, massive emotional meltdowns (over minuscule, incommensurate infractions), pink and purple, glitter and fairy wings, dinosaur costumes and rain boots, “Mommy, can I help?” and “Mommy, look at me!”

I have been trying to write about and capture my little girl for over a year now. But how do I fully portray her spirit and energy? Just when I have the words (and the time), she changes into another creature, seemingly before my eyes.

Slipping through my fingers…

What I want to remember is Addie’s big hair, how she sweats a lot and how her hair sticks to her face. How she smells of Johnson and Johnsons and oddly—up until recently—sometimes of cabbage. (I think it was the Miralax she had been on, because after we tapered it out of her diet, she smelled like a little girl should, which is not of cabbage.)

I want to remember, how at this age, she is so fiercely independent, often playing on her own for hours, and yet in an instant, can devolve into the baby that she emphatically says she is not, calling out to me and insisting that I carry her. “I do it! I do it!” is her constant refrain, and yet Heaven forbid if I go downstairs without giving her a lift, as well. Her desperate cries of “MOMMY!!!!” would lead one to assume that she was maimed at the top of the stairs and flames from a house fire were lapping at her heels.

Can I, please, just hold on to the little girl who, with clips askew in her big, puffy hair, brings me a box of Teddy Grahams, and then with hands clasped under her chin, looks up at me, sweetly smiles, and asks, “Please??” (Where did she learn that from anyway?) Though a “no”, no matter how gentle, is quick to reveal her true colors, and all prior sweetness melts along with her composure. Hands still clasped tightly under her chin, her angelic face is now twisted into a ruddy grimace, and we have to peel her off our legs while she demands louder and louder, “PLEASE! PLEASE!!” (So polite, she is.)

Can I hang on the little girl who likes to grab our faces and get up real close, little hands holding both sides of our faces, and whispers, “Hi.” Who, when I return to the car after making a quick porch drop-off at a friend’s house, will greet me with a big smile, “Welcome back, Mommy!” And who, like a bride in a lavish Chinese wedding, goes through at least three outfit changes in a day—I never know what Addie will be wearing when she returns to the room, shouting, “Surprise!”

I don’t know if I necessarily want to remember the afternoon she gleefully ripped up an entire library book during her supposed nap time, and then removed all the evidence, only to be given away by her guilt (or pride?) that compelled her to show me the garbage can, where she had expertly cleaned up after her crime.

I will, though, always hold onto the little girl who loves to run. Last year, when I was adjusting to life with a newborn as well as the demands of having an elementary schooler for the first time (which is a juggling act in itself), when my physical state was especially worn and my emotional well-being was constantly crumbling, my walks with Addie were bright spots in my otherwise frayed existence. Before the weather turned cold, we would walk to and from Caedmon’s school for drop-off and pick-up. Drop-off was always harried and frantic, with me running and pushing the barge that was our stroller, RyRy nestled under a pile of blankets and Addie hanging on tightly as she bounced along on the skateboard attachment on the back. Caedmon barely kept up on his scooter, but goshdarnit, we made it on time for school practically every day, even if I had to flag down the custodian to unlock the Kindergarten gate more times than I’d like to admit. I was “That Poor Mom”, and I lived up to every aspect of the self-imposed moniker. But it was the walks home that were often my favorite parts of the day. If we weren’t rushing off to any errands or hurrying to put Ry down for a nap, I would let Addie walk and run, pick up leaves, check the mailboxes. It is that moment that I want to bottle up, when Addie would ask, “Can I walk?”, and I would pause the stroller, and she would step down from the skateboard and be off—arms pumping, hair bouncing, neon sneakers, knitted poncho from my parents’ last trip to Peru, sometimes her pink footed pajamas peeking out from underneath (a veritable sight in the outfits she picks for herself), and the most contented smile on her face—racing down the sidewalk like the wind… on a completely breezeless day. Last year, at 2 ½, she was still an inefficient little runner, employing the heavy footfall of a toddler and exerting way more energy than should be required for the work actually put out. But those walks—then and now—are such bright gems in this mother’s trove of treasured moments.

And at the end of the day, when we tuck our kids in, it’s part of our bedtime routine that we spend some time in both kids’ beds. Before we installed the bunk bed, if I had been with Caedmon for more than five minutes, Addie would come scampering over, perch at the side of the mattress, and rasp in her smoker’s voice, “Mommy, come lay in Addie’s bed a wibbabit?” Caedmon and I used to engage in a lot more pillowtalk, before Addie moved in as his roommate and usurped my time and presence at bedtime. I’m thankful that he is so understanding… and so tired that he is asleep before Addie and I have finished singing her requested songs. Sometimes, instead of her songs, she simply asks, “Mommy, can we just talk?” And I realize with a small lump in my throat that this stage, my favorite, is already over with Caedmon. And one day—though thank goodness not now, but probably still sooner than I’d like—will be over with Addie, too.

Slipping through my fingers…

One night earlier this summer, when I was having a hard time sleeping, my mind wandered to this past year, as well as Addie’s upcoming third birthday, and all of a sudden, I was hit with the realization that her entire second year (a good chunk of my favorite stage of the little years) had coincided with My Year of Misery. And I panicked. Addie was SO fun at this stage, with her wobbly speech and earnest proclamations that mimicked her older brother’s. Had I been so focused on the baby and on myself that I missed out on this precious time with my baby girl?? I was so bothered that I almost—almost—woke Wayne up to share my reservations and regrets. Thankfully, I had the patience to wait until the (early) morning, and with his eyes barely cracked open, I pounced like the extrovert that I am, starved of an outlet: “Wayne! We should have waited another year to have Ryan! Because Addie! ADDIE!!! She was two! And now will be three! And I wasted this past year! I was too unhappy! Was I too unhappy? Did I fully enjoy her? Please tell me I didn’t miss out!!” (Be thankful that you are not married to me.)

Through slow and slogged speech, Wayne gave me his groggy reassurances, and of course he’s right, I didn’t “miss out”, but there is a legitimacy to those desperate feelings that I think every mother understands. These kids, who take so much out of me, have me simultaneously wishing for them to just hurry and grow up already and to stay exactly the same. Our babies are only babies for so long, and while much of the time, that is the indelible truth that gets me through the day, that is also the curse that has me frantically trying to jot down every milestone and memorable uttering, filling up my phone’s storage yet again with more pictures, and resolving at each new year to dust off my scrapbooking supplies and start creating my family albums again. (And then the reality of caring for these three kids who I’m trying to capture sets in, and my scrapbooking supplies are returned, once again, to the shelf.)

Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture
And save it from the funny tricks of time

Slipping through my fingers all the time

My little girl is changing before my eyes. I want so fiercely to hang on to her babyness, but of course I can’t. Even as I finish this piece, some of these moments have already become receding memories. But I’ll continue to write and do my best to capture the energy, the essence of my little girl—of all my kids—and temper the desperation that is just the natural side-effect of being a parent and watching our kids grow, develop, and flourish. 

It was so special taking Addie around my alma mater this past summer. 

It doesn't matter that we brought the kids to the Cove in La Jolla to see the seals and sea lions, Addie thought they were stinky and asked to leave almost right away. (insert eye-roll emoji)

Run, Addie, run!

Instead of napping, Addie made little beds for all her dolls and animals. Wayne thought it was adorable; I thought it was creepy, in a Heaven's Gate kind of way...

More nap time shenanigans... how many layers of clothing has she put on?

"Please??"

Helping me choose fabric at Hobby Lobby, though that's not what I would have picked for chair upholstery.

Addie loves our neighbor's Christmas decorations, and every time we play outside, I inevitably find her trespassing on their lawn, singing songs and dancing about. RyRy, though, looks like he's about to commit some serious vandalism on those candy canes. 

Our little bearded lady. How does she manage to eat like that?