I hate this side of me that resents Grace's anxiety. I know better. I do. I think part of the reason it bothers me so much is that I worry it's partly my fault. When she stopped sleeping for a few months, I was not a great mother. I joke that she wasn't held enough as a baby, but I do think it's kind of true.
I'm not saying this to get validation. I think she'd probably be neurotic no matter how amazing a mother I was. But I do think I could have kept it from being worse. And since I know it's partly my fault, I do take it personally when she flips out over dumb things.
Lately I've been sneaking her out of the room about half an hour before Emmy is due to wake up from her nap. We lie on the couch together and play silly games. It's bittersweet. It's so much like it was before she turned 9 months, back when she hardly ever cried and was almost always happy. I know that little girl is still in there. She just needs to be coaxed out.
The Child seems to have started outgrowing her abject terror of going number two. She still hates it, but I don't think it's A Thing anymore. This means... potty training! Joy. This Saturday is D-Day. Now, I don't normally care to share such things here, but it's something I've been dreading pretty much since the day she was born, so if I put it here, the only way it won't happen is if our apartment explodes.
Wish us luck.
We went to a birthday party on Saturday. A birthday party for an adult. But there was a bouncy house. Jeremy spent almost the entire time in there with the kids while I lazed around outside talking to friends. He got huge brownie points for that.
Believe it or not, The Child loves bouncy houses. She feels about them the way I feel about ponies. So, she spent hours scooting up the ramp, bouncing inside for a moment, getting launched up to the slide part by Jeremy, the running back around to the ramp to do it all over again. I was watching her finish a lap about halfway through the party when I saw her bump head-first into the our hostess's deck. Ooow, I though, but sort of ducked down so she wouldn't see me and start freaking out. But she kind of stumbled a bit, and then one of our friends picked her up, and she was obviously upset.
And then I saw BLOOD. Blood everywhere. It was all over her face and hands and in her hair, and she was hysterical. I rushed over and took her into the house, to the bathroom, and oh, she was a mess. Grace is such a cautious child that I have never seen her bleed. Not even once. It was a bit alarming. Our hostess handed me a washcloth, and I started dabbing the blood away while Grace hiccuped and sobbed. The wound itself wasn't bad, even though I'm sure it hurt like crazy. I probably would have cried, too. But I figured the night was ruined for her, and she and I would be stuck sitting in a chair while she clung to my neck.
The second she could speak through her tears, she looked up at me and said, "You wanna go down the sli-i-i-i-iiide?" Atta girl. Maybe I shouldn't worry about you so much.