This was one of those weeks. A late-winter virus made it's way through our family, leaving a mess of a house and three irritable girls in its wake. These are long days of working towards the intangible, of never sitting down but never getting anything accomplished. But then again nothing is meant to get accomplished, I suppose.
I knew this was coming: That Genevieve would start to crawl, start taking an interest in Cecile's things, and that Cecile wouldn't be capable of responding in the most generous of ways. I try so hard not to lose my temper, to be an example of cool and to teach kindness; but when your older child bullies your baby, even harms her, I am nevermore aware of my limitations as a parent. And then there's the anxiety about not being able to give Genevieve the same kind of attention I was able to give Cecile. Kids are adaptable, I keep telling myself. If only I could find a way to be more adaptable, too.
I knew this was coming: That Genevieve would start to crawl, start taking an interest in Cecile's things, and that Cecile wouldn't be capable of responding in the most generous of ways. I try so hard not to lose my temper, to be an example of cool and to teach kindness; but when your older child bullies your baby, even harms her, I am nevermore aware of my limitations as a parent. And then there's the anxiety about not being able to give Genevieve the same kind of attention I was able to give Cecile. Kids are adaptable, I keep telling myself. If only I could find a way to be more adaptable, too.
I know these challenges are the ones I'll forget about in time. That the moments lodged in my soul will be Genevieve's open-mouthed kisses on my chin or on my nose, or the way Cecile burrows into the crook of my arm for a story. Someday I'll say this stage was the best stage. Maybe it is.
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