My son turned one over the weekend. He stuffed that little face so full of cake I was sure he was going to get sick (he didn’t, thankfully) and ripped open his presents (ok, he mostly just ripped up tissue paper) and afterwards it hit me – I have been a mom for a full year. It seriously feels like a decade. I look back on the person I was before he was born, and I think, wow, that girl really didn’t know anything did she?
That girl wasted a lot of time, assuming she’d eventually get around to knitting that sweater / writing that book / reading War and Peace. That girl thought she could read a few Dr Sears books and have a decent head-start on the whole parenting thing (ha ha ha). That girl thought she knew what she was doing. THAT GIRL was an idiot.
That’s not to say that I suddenly know everything now. I’m still an idiot. It’s just that NOW I know how little I actually know. I STILL have no idea what I’m doing 99% of the time. And the 1% of the time I DO feel like I know what I’m doing, I’m usually doing it wrong. I’m thinking of having another kid if only so I can correct all the mistakes I’ve made (and will make) the first time around.
Still, I would not trade this last year for anything, sleepless nights and all. I may not be the world’s greatest parent (ok, I’m DEFINITELY NOT the world’s greatest parent). But if I can learn from my mistakes, kiddo will hopefully turn out okay. He’s definitely going to keep me humble, which is good because pride is my Achilles Heel. And thanks to my chubby-cheeked little bundle of mischief, life will never be boring. For which I am profoundly grateful.
Here’s to a pretty great year of raspberries, tickle monsters, sweet little baby kisses, and all the craziness that comes with them. I love you, kiddo.