Posted on | August 14, 2012 | 94 Comments
I can’t really stand the song. Which means that of course without fail, because we listen to the radio in the car, Harper loves it. Every time it comes on all I can picture is some drunken 21-year-olds in a bar belting it out in that annoying wasted 21-year-old way. Of course I’m jealous of these imaginary 21-year-olds because well, they are young, and have the world in front of them. Also jealous because they are wasted and probably can have more than one drink without wanting to die the next morning. Jerks, all of them, the imaginary kids in my daydream.
Lately my kid has been testing me every step of the way, every day. It’s a constant battle with this kid. She’s smart and willful and stubborn and crazy. Then there’s the fact that she’s three, which we all know is like, the scariest thing ever in the history of being alive.
But then we’re driving. And We Are Young starts and she’s belting out the words. She is young. She will set the world on fire. She does burn brighter than the sun. And I know in this moment that we are both young. Soon, before I’d like to admit, I will be old, and she will still be young but she will be older. I will be begging time to take me back to the days when she was driving me completely batty in the car, but instead time will laugh in my face as I sit alone wondering what my baby girl is doing out in the big wide world. I will be begging time to make my ears bleed with the sound of eleventy decibels of pure toddler madness, but instead it will give me the silence of empty halls and rooms.
It’s harder than hard to appreciate madness when it’s in front of you. Each day at bed time I find myself both overjoyed and abundantly sad. Yay we made it and no one died! Boo another day passed and what the hell are we even doing? I never spent any time caring about time before I was a mom. Now it’s all I think about. Make it stop! Make it go! MAKE IT STOP.
Sometimes I cry. I cry because I can’t believe how much I am fucking this up even though I try my best every day. I cry because even if I blogged or wrote every day about her life for her, about her, because of her, I could still never encapsulate the heartbreaking love I have for her. She will just have to know it, and feel it, and I will just have to hope I did it all right. God damn it, I hope we’re doing it
all right alright.
She yells from the backseat for me to sing with her. I sing with her because I will never again be as young as I am right now, and either will she. Tomorrow, even minutes from now, she will be bigger, older, have longer hair, be that further away from being born. It’s all so devastating, isn’t it?
So I sing, because I have no idea what else to do.