"Mama, you know, I don't really need my Elmo bed rail anymore. I won't fall out. I'm a big girl now," Charlotte explained very matter-of-factly, in all of her mature 4 year old-ness.
This statement left me dumbfounded. I mean, the Elmo bed rail has been attached to Abby, Bella, Emma, Cosette, or Charlotte's bed, for the last 12 years.
Saying so long to the Elmo bed rail is symbolic of saying goodbye to part of her childhood that is over, to prepare us for the next chapter.
Sigh. Snort. Sniff. Whimper.
So many phases I have been more than happy to see go! Like, potty training, for example.
Any parent who has successfully moved their child from diapers to underwear, deserves a full inclusive vacation somewhere exotic, with bottomless fruity drinks with umbrellas.
There is nothing quite like a potty training a 3 year old, who announces loud enough for all patrons in Target to hear, as you are waiting in line (ironically) to purchase an Elmo potty chair, "Mom...I have that feeling. I gotta PEE."
I mean, this is a do or die situation. This is split moment decision making time, people. No one educates you in college for this. You, as a parent, are now responsible for getting this potty dancing toddler to the toilet, while the theme song of the year, "Let It Go", pipes through the Target speakers.
You have a TICKING TIME BOMB in your hands!
This scenario could end in of a number of ways: 1) Rip open the Elmo Potty Chair box, and put it to good use right then and there, as onlookers gasp and shake their heads, or 2) Abandon your cart, and rush to the bathroom, where hopefully, a) it is not being cleaned, b) there is no line, and c) the largest stall is available, because the last time I checked, a 6 footer like myself and a red headed 3 year old dancing the potty jig, won't both fit.
Hypothetically speaking, let's say, that by the sheer grace of God, you make it to the Target bathroom in time, get the big stall, put a paper liner on the toilet seat, the child pulls down her panties, is gently placed on the throne, and - wait for it - PEES!!!!! Insert applause here.
Don't mind the fact, that the entire time, this same child has an insatiable desire. to put her hands on (gasp) the public toilet seat, while we frantically scream, "NO!!!! It's dirty! Hold onto Mama. I'll keep you from falling into the Pee Pee abyss."
This scenario wouldn't be complete without the loud WHOOSH flushing sound that scares the ever living shit out of both child and parent...no pun intended. It's like who invents these things? I beg of you, toilet flushing sound maker, please devise a sound that resembles wind chimes on a calm summer evening, instead of one that convinces my child, the TOILET IS GOING TO SWALLOW HER WHOLE.
When I stand back and think about it, we could compare potty training a preschooler in a busy Target, to asking someone to walk across a tight rope between two skyscrapers during a lightning and thunder storm. You are really praying that they make it across to the other side safely (ie: making it to the toilet in time), but you're also mentally prepared to observe, on live national television, this same person, plummet to their death (ie: peeing through the THIRD pair of Elmo panties of the morning, while waiting in line at Target).
And then it happens. One day, while busy in the kitchen making spaghetti sauce (or pouring myself a late afternoon cocktail), Charlotte disappears for a moment, comes back and announces, "I went potty all by myself, Mom."
That right there, my dear readers, is the peanut butter to the jelly, the apple to the fritter, a truly glorious day filled with rainbows, unicorns, and hot buttered popcorn. Because simply put, that one moment in time, represents all that hard work and patience, has finally paid off for the child through her learning independence.
I must be an extremely slow learner, because I never really got how fast this all goes until Charlotte joined our family. Maybe it was because we had 4 kids ages 5 and under? I don't really remember much of those early years - they are misted with a dense fog. Life resembled a never ending cycle of monotony. Dress them...feed them...go to the park...feed them again...put them down for a nap...go to a different park...feed them again...give them a bath...read stories...say prayers...put them to bed. Wake up and repeat.
Enter our surprise baby, Charlotte Grace. The twins were 10, Emma was 8, and Cosette was 5. Cozy actually called 911 shortly after Charlie came home, because in her mind, not being the baby anymore, was an emergency.
I finally get it now: there are all these "Last Times". The last time she nursed. The last time she needed my hand to steady her while taking steps. The last time I picked her outfit. The last time I lifted her into the car. The last time I buckled her into the stroller. The last night she slept with the Elmo bed rail
And the "Last Times" have been replaced with the "First Times". The first time she drank from a cup. The first time she took steps on her own. The first time she picked out her clothes. The first time she climbed into the truck. The first time she buckled her own self in the stroller. The first night she slept snug as a bug in a rug, without her Elmo bed rail, and didn't fall out.
And I'm not sure what to make of all this. Sometimes I feel like I'm watching a movie of someone else's life, who is overwhelmed and stretched too thin. A Mom who needs to make brownies for school the next day, and buy triple A batteries before dusk, because we need them for Charlotte's favorite nightlight, and have 2 teeth replaced with crowns, because she grinds and clenches, because she chose to bring way too many people into the world.
And then there are other moments, when this grace enters, and holds me up, and I stand back, and say, "Seriously, how did this blessed life become mine?"
My cup runneth over...right until the moment that someone asks me to go to the store for poster board for a project that is due tomorrow.
And then I remember "The Lasts and The Firsts" and try to breathe deeply.
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