Baby + kitty = love.
(Well, maybe a little more love from one and little more tolerance from the other!)
He still prefers to nap on me — in my lap, in a wrap or other baby carrier. But as he is getting bigger, I find myself wanting to put him down for at least one nap a day. It doesn’t always work, but yesterday it did because Mitty curled up right next to him. I was watching her from across the room as she settled herself down, pleased as could be to have found a baby heater.
We didn’t have pets when the girls were babies. Now we have a cat, a dog, and ten chickens (okay, the chickens aren’t really pets, but they are a part of our daily lives). I wonder if Wallace will relate to animals any differently as he grows — because of his early introduction to our furry and feathery friends?
In my journal last week, I copied down a sentence from Brené Brown’s book Daring Greatly. I’d read the book before, and I had picked it back up to read the chapter on leadership. Leadership led to parenting and then this:
“Who we are and how we engage with the world are much stronger predictors of how our children will do than what we know about parenting.”
Brené Brown’s book is about vulnerability—how essential it is for a full life—and how being perfect is not the goal. So, no pressure, mamas and papas! But, is it my imagination, or has Amabel become even more keenly aware of who I am and how I engage with the world since she started school? Or maybe since she turned nine? Whatever the reason, I’m sure she is taking in the essence of her mother to a greater degree that ever before. No pressure, mama.
On Tuesday I had a difficult conversation at work. Amabel wasn’t there—she was three blocks away, probably taking a math test—but as I looked out into the swirling snow and confronted whether or not to stand up and speak my truth, I thought about my daughter.
The blizzard had subsided by the time I left the office to pick up the girls from school. The sky was clear. Distracted by my thoughts, I did not stop to notice the fresh comforter of snow, but I remember the drive home and the chattering voices—so confident, so sure. Yes, I spoke my truth. It may have fallen on deaf ears in the moment, but it was not lost on oblivious children.