Written By: Lauren Howard
My oldest made me a mom.
My youngest?
My youngest made me a warrior.
She has been stubborn since she was fertilized in a petri dish courtesy of my useless reproductive system.
She refused to show up on an ultrasound for weeks. They were ready to medically terminate before she decided to peek out from whatever corner of my uterus she was hiding in and wave at the screen.
Jerk.
She gave me hell the entire pregnancy.
She was 8 weeks early and her patience has not improved since.
She came out screaming and didn’t stop until almost her first birthday.
She wanted to be held all the time and hated everyone but me. Mind you, I don't know that she liked me. She just hated me less.
She didn’t smile until she was three months old and had the world’s most severe eyebrows. She looked like she was angry all the time, and I took it personally.
She didn’t sleep for more than three hours a single time until she was 6 months old.
Oh, did I mention that she would beg you to pick her up, snuggle into your arm like she was being affectionate, and then BITE?
Yeah.
But she had the chonkiest little thighs.
When she started to smile, I would do anything to see it again and again.
And as soon as she could scoot, she was gone. She didn’t need us for anything. She still doesn’t.
She learned to climb before she could walk, and she was never once scared of falling.
She realized that spitting was hilarious, and her giggle was better than anything I had ever heard in my life.
She grabbed a stuffed Winnie the Pooh in a shop at 9 months old and has slept with it every night since.
She knew who she was from the second she was born and made it well known during her weeks in the NICU and in her transition home that she was NOT to be compared to her sister.
That kid who hated to be held has turned into the world’s best source of calming hugs and a held hand exactly when you need it.
She has taught me more about patience, about my limits, and about how far in over my head I am since the day I saw two lines on a stick.
And today, she is five.
Five.
How is my baby FIVE?!
I would not be who I am without her.
Also, holy stuff, I have survived five years of this kid. That’s something to celebrate.
I am so lucky to be her mom, and I thank my lucky stars every day.
Photo by Mother of Wilde on Unsplash.
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