Week 7: The Finley Files

Fin,

I want to spread you on a cracker and eat the lint that hides in your thigh rolls. But, Fin, I am just a baby myself. How can I have one in my arms? I know having babies is something grown-ups do, but I don't feel like an adult. Besides, adults pronounce it AH-DULTS. And instead of mature, it's MA-TOOR. And instead of juvenile, it's JUV-EH-NUL. It's more than feeling inadequate. For me it's a language barrier.

I spend most of my days trying to figure out how not to screw you up. I wish I could see your whole life in one span, all at once. That way I could tickle the baby and have the adult giggle. I could whisper my secrets to the baby, cry in her hair, and have the adult understand.


You are Smiley Cyrus. (Aunt Reilly will punch me for that one.) You wake up for the day around 11 and are happy, happy, happy. You already want to be facing out, facing the world, so you can observe and take note. You have your favorite things to look at--the snowman, the hats on Grandma's bedposts, the pictures on the wall, the metal star in the living room--and if we don't look at these things when you first wake up, you remind me with an angry "MEH!" I try to get as close to you as possible without swallowing you whole. We sit at the window a lot, me reading, you over my shoulder smiling at the trees, at the wind, at the sun...

I have gotten used to you in pink. See, Fin, your mom isn't a huge fan of pink. It's never worked for me. It reminded me of Paris Hilton, of sweatpants that say "juicy" on the butt, of chubby junior high girls with bleach blonde hair and muffintops. Even the word pink was just... too pink. I was worried about all the pink you were given--pink blankets, pink clothes. I painted our room yellow to avoid the stereotypical baby girl nursery. But now...

You exude pink. You look lovely in it. I hardly dress you in any other color. It just fits you--you little angel. I am in love with you in pink. I would rename you Pinky if I could.

You coo, now, too. Every day you make one coo more than you did the day before, and you move your jaw up and down like a little guppy, imitating my mouth when I talk. You stick your tongue out like a frog. You are ready to communicate--you just need your body to catch up. But you do communicate, fantastically. You know to smack your lips and I'll feed you. You know to touch your ears and I'll rock you to sleep. You know to arch your back and I'll turn you around and show you everything that's out there--the good stuff, at least. I worry about the days when it's time to leave our cocoon, when I have to emerge and return to the old world, the one that's full of exhaust and cigarettes and homeless people. Having you has filled me with light and I don't want to return to anything scary or sad.

I want to protect you from the monsters, just like my mother wanted to protect me. At the same time, I want to show you that the world is not perfect and that's why it's beautiful, that it's wild and unorthodox and there can be found the loveliest things in the dark.

I thought I was miserable pregnant until I gave birth. I'd rather have you nestled in my arms than curled up inside me, but I secretly loved being pregnant. I loved the swelling with life, feeling like a fertility goddess. Post-pregnancy, I just feel empty, saggy, bloated, and all alone in here, in my body. I'm dying for someone, anyone to hit on me. I'd take some gross guy at the gas station. Hey, one woman's sexual harrasser is another woman's hero.

I've started to think of alone time, though. I love being with you, and the thought of even running out for a few hours without you makes me feel like I'd be leaving behind my leg. But we live with my parents still, and though I am so appreciative of them letting me squat in their basement with you, I crave our own space. I hate the times when I want to be alone, but I can't. I want to be taken care of, but at the same time I want so badly to be able to take care of myself.

Soon you will be grown up and I'll nearly die of shock. So fast, I'll think. Too fast. I'll regret the times I spent pushing you away, putting you in your swing so I could type one more paragraph--one more word on the manuscript no one will ever read. That's why I decided to have a word of the year. Grandma's word is BALANCE. Aunt Reilly's word is STRENGTH. My word? Our word, Fin?

Joy.

I've never particularly been interested in happiness, but you bring it forth in me and I decided I like it.

I've read a LOT of parenting manuals, heard a lot of advice from different moms (some advice has scared the living daylights out of me--apparently anyone can be a mother). Speaking of other mothers--maybe it used to take a village to raise a child, but that was before the village was made up of all idiots.

I'm partly kidding. I have been so grateful to every mother who has given me free life lessons with their advice. You are all wonderful, loving, successful mothers. And I've decided that my parenting style is to GO WITH MY GUT. So far, my gut has never let me down. And I really feel confident in my gut. It's got lovely lines on it now, like wrinkles. That means it's wise.

Finley Mae, I just love you. I love our time together. I miss you when I'm sleeping. You are my best friend. Keep growing. Keep learning. I can't wait to hear you read Bartholomew Cubbins to me. I can't wait till you dance to the Rolling Stones. I can't wait to show you Disneyland and hackey sack and finger nail polish. I want to teach you that being kind is the most important thing in the world--kind to people, kind to your surroundings, kind to creatures, kind to yourself.

I love you, my darling. You are lovely and smart and a delight to be around.

Love forever,

Mama

P.S. Please don't ever drag me to a Disney-celebrity concert. You know, Miley Cyrus, Hilary Duff, Jonas Brothers, or whatever the future equivalent of those will be. I love you and I'll do it, but if you don't make me, I'll buy you a convertible when you're 16.