Cuteness times 1,000.
The Brooklyn Baby Family at Disney World.
Stella nearly worshiping the parade.
Woody Allen has spoken at length about how his original dream was to be a musician. Becoming one of America's most iconic and successful film makers of all time was Plan B, when he realized his talent at the clarinet couldn't really cut it. (Although now people pay craploads of money to see him perform regularly in Manhattan for his less-than-perfect talent.)
I have always dreamt of being one of those beatific, zen-like people who populate yoga classes and the Park Slope Food Coop. Someone who rolls with what life gives her, who never seems frazzled, who is too wise and calm to let life's little mishaps drag her down from her ethereal perch.
I have friends like this, people I revere beyond belief. My friend (and doula at Stella's birth), Julie, a woman who can find the good in everyone and make lemonade from the most rotten, disgusting lemons you've ever seen, comes to mind. As does my friend from high school, Tiffanie, who even in those hormonal and turbulent days always seemed to know that life was composed of more than AP US History test scores, pimply straight-edge boys and college applications.
Tiffanie manages being a mother with apparent ease and grace, finding the beauty in each and every moment. l avidly read both her regular blog and her foodie blog where she details the gorgeous meals she throws together on a whim using what she grows herself and buys at her local Berkeley farmer's market. (Again, I wish I could throw food together, but that zen-like confidence makes me nervous, so I search Epicurious and Food Network for detailed recipes for almost every dish I make.)
One thing she does as a mother is to "write it down," to chronicle those day-to-day miracles that you're certain you'll never forget, but fear you might.
I know myself. I will never be zen-like, although I do aspire to take more yoga classes and eat more whole, organic foods. Although New York exasperates me, I sadly fit in with the neurotic, control-freak, Type-A vibe here.
But one thing I can do is slow down, look at my gorgeous daughter, revel in her existence and WRITE IT DOWN.
So, for your consideration, some daily miracles I've witnessed recently:
- Saying, "Oh, hello Romwell," every time she sees our cat, Cromwell, in the most excited and joyful voice.
- Dancing and singing along with the parade at Disney World while the other kids around us melted down.
- Traveling to Florida like it's no big thing, sleeping like an angel and learning our hosts' names on day one.
- Counting to ten almost obsessively. In fact, she does everything obsessively until she's an expert at it: learning the alphabet, learning colors, climbing stairs, singing songs. I guess that's one Type A trait she inherited that's not too bad.
- Speaking of colors, whispering in a reverent voice, "All da colors" when she sees an assortment of them, then using my index finger to point them out and name them.
- Speaking to my mom on the phone enthusiastically, saying "Mamaw" and singing songs for her. And, of course, telling her "I lub you."
- Being obsessed with photos of her family members, especially those far away, and knowing their names even though she rarely sees them.
- Grabbing a book and saying "da couch," leading either her father or me by the hand to the couch and snuggling up to us while we read.
- Insisting we tickle her. And tickle her. And tickle her until I'm not sure she'll be able to continue breathing.
- Hugging me, really hugging me, finally FINALLY FINALLY hugging me, squeezing my neck and giving me a precious pat on my back.
- Mocking crying when we ask her what she always said as a baby.
- Wanting to play dress up and play with a tea set, diapering her stuffed animals and loving the color pink, proving beyond a doubt that nature kicks nurture's butt, and that I was a fool to think I could mold my child into something. Which, of course, is a very good thing.