Lucy is one year old. She is amazing. She is funny. The whole planet gets a warm fuzzy when she smiles.
She is cruising about the coffee table. She gives high fives and fist pumps. She can say "hat," and "apple" and she knows a few animal sounds. She likes to stand on her head. She loves The Fresh Beat Band. We took her to the doctor recently for a fever. It turns out she is just teething and so she made it an entire year without a single bit of sickness.
I read a lot when she is nursing. Currently it's a good deal of Jane Austen which makes me contemplate the timeline of women's roles and I wonder what Lucy will contend with as a grown female. Sometimes I read the news, which is often so heartbreaking I can only make it through a few headlines. I wonder how it is even possible for my healthy baby to exist so peaceful and warm in my arms in a world where these stories are possible.
I feel like there is a lot of discussion and advice on the art of parenting. Everyone has a list of rules you should follow. I hate those kinds of rules. Sometimes (every day?) the kids throw me a curve ball and knowing what I should do and my actual actions don't match up. Sometimes I start comparing my kid's schedule and privileges to others and I wonder who's winning.
When I sat down to write some fantastic paragraph about Lucy, all I could think was that I love her. And I love Penn. And I want to be good to them and for them.
And, as simple and obvious as that sounds, it is everything. Whatever parental dilema I am faced with, and no matter my own personal tribulations, I want to be good for my children and I want them to feel secure in their family's love.
When I consciously think about being good to and for my children in the midst of that dilemma I find myself making better decisions.
Lucy's face is so happy. I just want that to last forever.