Het is lastig. Er is al een maand voorbij.
Hij is geen kleine, nieuwe baby meer (niet dat ik ’em ooit klein heb gezien, meneer-8LB-14 oz). De echte newborn geur is allang vervlogen.
Het is lastig. Dat de tijd voorbij gaat. Dat je bepaalde ogenblikken, momenten en karakteristieken van tijden in je leven niet voor altijd vast kan houden.
Het is lastig dat een vierde kindje zo veel liefde brengt in een gezin en ik mag genieten van de joy van de anderen, maar het idee heb dat ik de echte babyfase nog meer voorbij vliegt (of dat ik ’em bij het zwembad doorbreng en aan de keukentafel, terwijl ik schoolboeken bestel voor de anderen).

Meer dan een jaar geleden schreef ik over “dat lastige” een artikel. In het engels.
Vandaag post ik die hier. En laat ik je meegenieten van hoe “dat lastige” zo mooi en zo te vieren is.

Lieve groet voor jullie allemaal!

“Are her friends coming for the party?”
“I can’t wait to give her my present!”
“Can I help make the cupcakes?”

While her siblings’ excitement for their sister’s birthday grows by the minute, I personally find myself hesitating. Pausing. Hoping I get more time and space to breathe.

Oh yes, of course there will be decorations, balloons, cupcakes. The invitations are sent. The gifts already wrapped. And the cupcakes almost ready.

It’s not that I do not like birthdays. I love them. Isn’t it great that we get to celebrate our kids! With words, laughter, blessings, gifts, cupcakes and friends.
I do want to celebrate her! Her life. Her existence. It doesn’t matter how she scored on the check-up at the doctor’s office. I don’t mind that she doesn’t eat enough vegetables or responded with an explosive cry because of a little shot.
It is not even that she tries to have control. That she fights me all the time. That she screams ‘NO’ right in my face, all day long. Or that tonight, the evening before her birthday, we had to send her to bed without dinner.

It is not those things that make me waver. I don’t care about them, really.
I care for her! A lot. I cannot wait to celebrate her.
Her laughter. Her desire for interaction. Her jokes. Her beautiful curls. Her sneaky look. Her caring spirit, her strength. Even her combative attitude.

It is just so vulnerable. She is turning two!
I know. It sounds silly. All these big words and emotions about a toddler.
But it is not the toddler. It is me.

All of a sudden, I realize that with every celebration there is a goodbye. The closing of something. The passing of time, of a certain season. I am not hesitating because I don’t want to celebrate her. I pause because I need time to let it go. The time of her being a baby. Of her being a one-year-old. The time of her not talking. Not walking.
It dawns on me that it won’t be this way forever. This is a beginning of new era. I realize that every celebration, every new beginning, however hopeful, also brings a closure. The end of mostly beautiful times.

While I blow up the balloons and mix the batter I think about her. Her waddle which became walking. Her gibberish which became words I can kind of understand. I think about her growth and her interaction with her siblings. I see myself turning the pages of her life – of this year. And slowly I close the book. The book of my youngest being a one-year-old. While my hands rest, looking at the back cover of this year, I realize there is nothing more that I want to do right now than to celebrate.
Celebrate. The vulnerable, closing celebrating of her second year.
Celebrate. The anticipating, opening celebration of her third year.

So I lit the candles. Two. And while I bring her the cake, you can hear my voice above all the others: “Happy Birthday to you!”