My kind of angel
This weekend, we celebrated the end of Lily’s first year in style– and in really great company.
With three out of five grandparents in attendance, there was plenty of dancing, way too much cake, and lots and lots of stories. Silly stories, embarassing stories. Stories about the firsts that they experienced as parents: fevers and fights; teeth and tantrums; steps and stumbles. The moments that made them wish that their little angels would stay little forever, and those days– and months, and years– when those little buggers weren’t really all that angelic.
There’s definitely something about having having an
experiment child of my own makes these anecdotes–some definitely cringe-worthy–feel new and helpful and totally relevant in a way I never anticipated. Because although I’m sure I’ll eat my words soon enough, it is these first glimpses of ornery (like the deliberate mussing of hair that her sweet grandmother worked so hard to smooth) that help me to understand how ready Lily is to start doing the hard work that establishing one’s place in the world requires. And although it’s taken me a full year to realize it, I know know that my own little angel– tilted halo and all–isn’t going to break. She’s tougher than I thought she was, and–thanks to her–so am I.