The other day, my girls and I went on a lunch date. Our destination: Pam’s Patio Kitchen, my favorite local lunch spot in San Antonio.
Pam’s is located just a few stop signs away from the neighborhood swimming pool that Little G and I swam in virtually every day last summer. “Little G, do you remember what’s over there?” I asked, pointing farther along the street.
“Don’t you remember, honey? The pool from last summer?”
But I could tell my daughter’s 3-year-old memory wasn’t as good as my 32-year-old one. Meanwhile, 5-month-old Baby G squealed from her car seat, reminding us that she was there, too. She doesn’t like to be left out of things.
But Baby G wasn’t here last summer, and for a moment, I felt a flicker of nostalgia for that time in my life, when everything seemed so much easier. There was just one child to take care of. She slept through the night. I had more time to write; I had just finished “The Moms,” in fact.
And I could still wear a swimsuit. Yes, I gave birth five months ago, but my post-baby bump is still startlingly visible. It will be some time before I feel comfortable in a swimsuit again, friends.
Last summer, I felt comfortable in everything I was doing. Baby G, though, has forced me to push the reset button. For starters, I’m rereading (whenever I can) “What to Expect the First Year”—I barely remember any of it, thanks to the first round of sleep deprivation with Little G. And in some ways, I’m forging a new mother/daughter relationship with Little G. This summer, for example, I’ve said to her (more than once), “I’m so sorry I raised my voice to you. I am just so tired.”
Little G looks me in the eye. “It’s OK, Mom. You can do better next time.”
We didn’t have these kinds of conversations last summer. I’m hoping, though, that our conversations now are richer, with the added layers of compromise and forgiveness, give and take. And if they’re not … I’m sure Little G will let me know when she’s older. 🙂 (I’m a firstborn daughter, too. I know how it goes!)
I remember when Baby G was born. Everything was so much easier with her than with my older daughter. All because I had already done it all once before. And because of that first experience, I was conscious, this second time, to appreciate everything more. To hold Baby G longer. To sing “Goodnight Sweetheart” slower. To take our time.
Pam’s, the pool, last summer … The nostalgia I felt, I think, was really an awareness that time moves fast. Even when days feel long, time is skipping forward until this summer, this season, becomes last year’s.
Unless that is nostalgia—“That it will never come again / Is what makes life so sweet” (Emily Dickinson).
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