As I watch little C march out into summer school in her fluffy skirt and sleeveless top (summer!) and her electric blue flats, I realize, once again, how quickly time flies. It seems like only yesterday she was a helpless little thing who would wake up every 2 hours needing to be fed, breath smelling sweetly of milk. Now she is a far from helpless, fiercely independent little firecracker with a seemingly inexhaustible supply of her own opinion. Her breath, suffice to say, does not smell sweetly of milk anymore, and she is, most of the time, breathless and sweaty from how much she runs around (plus, it’s summer!). I want to hang on to every bit of unrestrained laughter, every bedtime story/tuck-in (no matter how much irrational delaying tactics play a part), every sticky hug, every little moment
elyze.
I’ve never been a motherly person. Little C has been, and still is, the only infant I have ever held in my life. I have never been absolutely confortable with children, and I can’t say, my own aside, that I am now. It still takes me by surprise that it’s taken just this one cherry bomb to turn me into a mother. And of all the things, in these past three years, that I have done with her, the one thing that makes me feel the mother-child connection the most is feeding her
dermes.
I don’t mean nursing…although I did do that for the first year of her life. I mean feeding her actual food. The food I make and the food I eat. Carefully picking choice bits from my plate and placing them in her waiting mouth. Especially if I’m doing it with my hands. I feel like I am taking part in a ritual older than time, something billions of mothers did before me. That careful, deliberate, passing on of nourishment.
As soon as the simple days of food introduction where done, and food allergies were ruled out, I tried to give her food that was not too different from what we ourselves ate (just being cautious about salt and sugar). I wanted her to try as much as she could, and to know and appreciate where this food comes from. We would bring her to market (we still do) and show her whole fish and vegetables with the dirt still on them. She loves the fishmongers stall…particularly the live crabs and the fish. And I, in turn, love showing her that fish come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. I don’t know many nursery rhymes or children’s games or arts and crafts, but that I do know. And that I can teach
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