Tuesday, January 13, 2009

No More Poop Under My Fingernails. And How is This Sad?

It is sad because the reason I won't get poop on my fingernails anymore (or at least as often, cause you never know what could happen, especially when you're out of toilet paper. Don't judge me) is that my little baby, the larger, more talkative version of the tiny peanut that grew in my belly a mere three years ago, is now potty trained. I think. I mean, again, life is unpredictable, and the only thing more unpredictable than life is toddlers, so things could change, but I am pretty sure that she is going to be consistently evacuating like a big girl on the family throne from now on.

My heart hurts a little bit thinking that this is one of many steps that discontinue my daughter's need of my services, and I almost can't breathe when I think that next it might be that she won't need me to dress her or read her bedtime stories or give her bubble baths with mountains of foam and plastic tubby toys. The day is not so far away that she is going to take her cute little underwear butt to school and share the day with some other woman (or man) who will take over my position of head teacher. She may even think this teacher is pretty with her long, blonde hair and pretty blue eyes and think how much smarter she is than her dear old mom. She will make friends that, all of a sudden, are so much more worthy of her time and understand her deepest, darkest fears and emotions more than I ever could, and she will fall asleep at night anxious for the next day so she can return to her friends and the sanctuary of learning at school.

I fold her miniscule underwear which looks like it should be on a baby doll and finger the scalloped edges with my shaking fingers, imagining that in a few short years, I may not be able to tell the difference between her underwear and mine, and that she may rifle through my drawers frantically looking for a clean blue shirt for Spirit Day at school. Then there is the day she realizes that the rosebuds gracing her chest are blooming into roses and she needs more womanly structures in her underwear drawer that will support her into womanhood. No more will she race to the potty to avoid an accident, but she will yell to me as she slams the door, "Mom, leave me alone, I need some privacy!" until she one day finds something strange on her underpants and needs me momentarily to transition her from girlhood to a potential mother. But that won't last. Just like her needing me now to help her pull her pants up and down and wipe her tiny bum won't last mere moments longer.

No more diapers. No more baby powder. No more bum rash. And then no more stepstool and no more me.

Alone, in the bathroom, she is growing up. Before my eyes for now. But soon, I won't be witness to it all.

No more diaper changes. So many other changes to come. I hope I am invited to some of them.