My kid knocks my socks off. Yesterday, she was sitting at the coffee table in the living room pretending to eat her lunch, and she kept saying "Uh-oh pee, uh-oh pee." I was looking for the puddle on the floor when I spotted the P from her alphabet puzzle. Uh-oh P. My kid knows P. I have no idea how she knows P. Or M, or T, or U or Z, she just does.
Last night, as we were getting her into her pajamas, she started doing somersaults all on her own. Over and over, she finally just got it and can't seem to stop. She's off doing that right now and cheering for herself, "Yay Mia!" And then "Yay Hee-ooh (Eeyore)" and "Yay Pooh" as she helps them through their own forward rolls.
But see, last night I had a dream that I just can't shake. Don't worry, I'm not going to tell you about it because oh my god that's boring, but basically Mia was some sort of demon zombie toddler bent on my destruction and I hurt her in self-defense. I was wracked with guilt in the dream and when I woke up and was unable to go back to sleep because I needed the time to chastise myself for even letting the thought of injuring my child enter my mind and I still feel like a horrible mother, a failure, some sort of deeply damaged person unworthy to mother this amazing child because the mere idea somehow crept into my subconscious. But the truth is, if Mia really were a demon zombie toddler bent on my destruction, I would just lie down on the rug and let her eat my brains. What other choice is there, really? I mean, she can do a somersault and knows P. I am powerless to resist.
It's the agony of parenting, and the beauty, isn't it? I would lie down and die for this kid, were it required, and feel it was a life well-spent.