Raising Little Humans, and the Strands of Wisdom That Come With Them
It’s been the fastest year of my life. My daughter marched into being a one-year-old. She won’t remember her first year, but I can recall it with a clarity I may never experience again. I know that, as time passes, these colorful memories will desaturate and blur with the arrival of more children(God-willing),and distorted by the distractions of everyday life that so easily pull us away from what’s right in front of us.
Her father is the steady documentarian, keeping her baby shower book on the bedside table and filling it with notes to future Zosia — her first words, her discoveries, her small joys. My own way of remembering is different: through portraits and crafted mementos. It’s funny: our small attempts to hold still what is always slipping away. Together, these practices remind us that memory is not just what happened, but how we chose to see it.
Now Zosia is a toddler with a mop of amber-brown hair — wild in the morning, brushed into her signature waterfall pony by afternoon. She is both sweet and sour, warm and fuzzy as a honeybee, but quick to temper when newness frustrates her or boundaries close in. I often wonder which parts of her are truly hers, and which are projections of my own making. Parenthood seems to live in that tension: of guiding while stepping back, of seeing clearly while knowing our view is always a little distorted.
And yet, every day is not all sunshine and rainbows. Right now, we’re in the throes of what feels like a sleep regression. All the while, there are two teeth on their way to a breakthrough in my daughter’s gummy little mouth. She is particularly whineyyyy at night and is taking her frustration out on my boobs. Breastfeeding is her go-to outlet for seeking comfort.
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about throwing in the towel. Please tell me there is a Weaning for Dummies 101 at the Belgian library near me. But of course, there isn’t — and even if there were, no book could hand over a foolproof plan. Parenthood is trial and error, a little survival, and a lot of improv.
The night before this photo session, Zosia had one of her worst nights of sleep. She’d had too much fun at her local bestie’s birthday party — skipped her nap, overdosed on excitement — and we paid for it dearly. By morning, I swore she would never attend another birthday party for the rest of her life. I was almost afraid to face the mirror, convinced that the night had gifted me fresh dark circles and maybe a few extra wrinkles just in time for the photo shoot.
Of course, the photos came back and we look so happy — because we are. The lows of parenthood are softened by moments of joy, the kind that only come from watching your daughter giggle as her father lifts her high into the air. And yes, there are a few more grays in my hair than I remember seeing just a year earlier… but this is life. We collect these strands as quiet symbols of wealth and wisdom, things that are typically regarded as unwanted or signify neglect. I won’t remember the sleepless night or the crankiness that came before these pictures. I’ll remember us, right there, exactly as we were.
A special thanks to our new friends, Kacey and Campbell, for responding to our request for family portraits and enthusiastically rising to the challenge. People like you make the world feel like home.
