When Winnie was born, I didn’t cry. I worried at first that I was missing the mom gene, because who, besides a cold-hearted lunatic, wouldn’t cry at the birth of their first-born child? But then I remembered that I had been in labor for more than a day, hadn’t eaten anything but ice chips in as many hours, and was desperate for a turkey sandwich from a cafeteria that was moments from closing. I was beyond exhausted. I didn’t have anything left. Including tears.
It’s no surprise that in the last 51 weeks, I have more than made up for those missing tears.
I cried when we left the hospital because Matt was driving 100 miles an hour and she was just so tiny in her car seat. (Spoiler alert: he was going approximately 3 miles an hour)
I cried when I was feeding Winnie at roughly 3 am while watching previously unknown (to me) Americans win gold medals during the Olympics.
I cried when Tiny Dancer came on the radio because Winnie was also tiny.
There are many other very ridiculous examples like this over the last year.
Last night (and, full disclosure, also today) I cried because my sweet baby doesn’t look like a baby at all anymore. She’s almost walking, she’s eating real food by herself, she’s sleeping through the night and pretty soon she will be in kindergarten and then high school and I won’t believe that either.
“I can’t believe she’s almost a year old.” I have repeated that sentence in various forms what feels like a million times over the last few weeks. It’s impossible to believe. But, Winnie is such a joy and I am so lucky to be her mama.