growing up | The Waiting

Before you start reading this, put on a song you love. If you want some suggestions, there are a few selections from my soundtrack I listened to when I wrote this here, here, and here.

I am not a dancer. Me not being a dancer goes hand-in-hand with me being self conscious. I feel like an idiot when I move my body to the music, and I have since my first seventh grade dance. Please please please don’t look at me. I’m that hippo in the corner doing yoga while wearing an Alexander McQueen-inspired getup.

I have felt like an idiot at countless weddings and parties when I started to sway. I’m not going to try to convince you that I look totally stupid because in all likelihood I don’t. It’s all in my head, I know that. But growing up means getting over yourself and just being a human who does things for the sake of doing them and not constantly checking yourself in the mirror.

So today when Wee Cee was in her high chair finishing lunch and The Reeling by Passion Pit came on and I naturally started doing Zumba moves to it because that’s what you do when that song comes on and I don’t trust anyone who suppresses the urge and says that it’s lame to move, well, she lost it and busted a move just as easily as I did. She threw her little fist in the air raise-the-roof style and swayed in her little baby way. We danced and swayed and laughed and moved together.

And then the song ended and I realized I had just danced without even knowing it. The above recounting of my moves are only corroborated by B who is home because the semester is over. How long have I been dancing without even knowing it? Probably since the moment this girl was born and I started getting over myself and started being a more human human. Being a parent means letting go of your lame self you developed the instant you hit puberty and forgot about being a baby. It means having fun because not only does it feel good but it makes your baby smile and it teaches her to embrace this glorious time in her life.

Last night I had a bad dream. The sad thing about it is that I know that it will eventually be real.

In my dream I awoke like I do most mornings around 5:30 or 6 and went to the baby. In my dream, though, she wasn’t a little lump swaddled and sweetly sleeping in her bassinet. Over night she had grown from her current six week old state. She was at least 35 pounds and three feet tall. Her face had filled out; it was longer, more mature. Her hair was long and brown, her current soft dusting of hair replaced by brushable locks.

I pulled her out to feed her. My back ached at the strain of the lift that is normally so effortless. She wiggled out of my arms and promptly began toddling across the room. I didn’t know whether to feel proud that my baby was walking or horrified that she had acquired this skill overnight.

I went to B to show him what had happened and what she was doing. When we both returned to her, not only was she still walking, but she had somehow procured some of my clothes and had put them on. I was mortified. I told B to call the pediatrician. Something was very wrong. Babies shouldn’t grow like this.

He was calm. “This is only natural,” he replied.

I collected her in my arms and rocked her like a newborn. She struggled and ran off to play.

At that point I woke myself because I couldn’t stand it anymore.

This is probably the most easily interpreted dream I’ve ever had. This,