Monday, June 29, 2009
I have come to realize that parenting is like running a marathon I didn't train for.
I'm only on mile five and I feel like giving up.
I am in significant discomfort and the finish line is inconceivably far away.
My willingness to continue varies moment to moment.
The baby has finally given up her attachment to her fever. Two steps forward.
She has eaten a total of 5 raspberries, 2 yogurts and one croissant in the past four days. Twenty five steps back. I know very well that what you focus your attention on gets bigger and bigger, but she is so obviously losing weight it's hard not to hover over her with food.
Yesterday she even refused milkshake and ice cream. If I didn't vividly remember pushing her out I would seriously question her genetics.
In contrast the six year old is thriving and vibrant. She has been in summer camp.
She was supposed to be learning to swim and play tennis. Instead she and her camp mates seem to be focused on bodily functions and naughty words. Sigh.
I find it very hard to keep my face set in motherly disapproval while she is cracking herself up with a song about poop and boogers.
Maybe that's where I'm going wrong. Maybe if I spent more time seeing how far I can get my feet into my mouth (the baby) or if putting glue on the toilet seat really makes you stuck (the six year old) I might just make it to mile six.