This month I’m entering a new experience — parenting a 17-month old. Perhaps that is stating things a bit dramatically, but the wording feels right to me.
When Ian turned 17 months old, I had just been put on bed rest. Up until then, he was my buddy. We would drive around East Nashville, running errands and saying hi to friends. He would endure my couponing grocery runs like a champ. We had daily dance parties to Daft Punk songs.
When I was first told to “take it easy and keep my feet up,” I felt daunted at the prospect of keeping up with my energetic toddler without overexerting myself. Once I was admitted to the hospital with premature labor, I was so shocked and scared that I didn’t think about much other than my unborn child. After a few days of bed rest, however, I was struck with the thought of being merely an observer for 5 months of my oldest child’s life.
Many tearful days followed. Thanks to the amazing kindness of my husband, my family, and my friends, Ian had loving hands to guide him through his days. I did get to encourage him to drink his milk from afar and sing silly songs while he sat in his high chair, but backyard swinging and outside playing and hockey gaming were out of my reach.
I still get a lump in my throat thinking about those days. I worry that you, dear reader, will judge me for my drama. After all, I now have two beautiful, healthy children, and I get to play with them every single day. Indeed , I am blessed.
But I am truly excited to get to parent a 17-month old (and an 18-, 19-, 20-, and 21-month old) for the first time. I think this is going to be a wild ride.
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