One of the coolest things about moms is–no, not their ability to get tipsy off of one white wine spritzer, which I single-handedly prove is a complete fallacy, by the way–how they want each day for their child to be the best day ever.
I see it still with Nanny the way she always wants to help me. How some days she “doesn’t want to bother me,” something I used to get mad at, “Ma, how could you not tell me…??” but now, I get. She didn’t want to put a blemish on my day. She didn’t want me to worry.
Each morning when you wake up and I see those pure, angelic faces I want the best for you. I want smiles and laughter and birds singing and stars. I don’t want you to see me tired. I don’t want to leave you sitting in some chair staring at me, dying to be picked up, while I’m hunched over my laptop or iphone. I want music. I want dancing. I want hugs. And happiness. And for you to feel loved.
Today I took you to Lord & Taylor to buy me some much needed new clothes, dressing like a gypsy since the pregnancy and I don’t mean a cute bohemian type from Anthropolgie but not an actual gypsy like the ones by the Louvre, still sporting my old clothes purchased with my J.Crew discount back in 2006 (ah, those oldies but goodies). I didn’t buy shoes–not yet, I said, still hoping to go down from an 11 to a 9, right now I’m at around 9 1/2. I didn’t buy pants either–again, not yet. I pushed you around bumping into mannequins (I’m sorry, they put them in the most ridiculous places), basking in the compliments from strangers (oh Jack, you are a ladies man, cooing and gurgling, even when that one woman too tan for this time of year peeked over and barked, “he’s too warm!” and I jumped to defend, “his cheeks are always red like that!”). Was buying Mommy big underwear in the lingerie department of Lord & Taylor the best day ever? No. I guess not. I know every day there can’t be magic. But there can be love.