Fourteen years ago (has it really been that long?) I was *that* mom-to-be. You know the type: the crazy, hyper-obsessed, list-making, control freak usually spotted inspecting every formula can at Babies 'R Us. Yep - that was me.
I lived and breathed every detail of impending parenthood. If the parenting bible recommended 15 onesies, I'd buy 60 (you know, just in case). Who knows what apocalyptic circumstances might call for 60 onesies or what the hell I was thinking at the time, but I was prepared. And that's all that mattered.
Don't even get me started on the gear. Top 50 useless baby items? Check. Spare useless baby items? Double check. Parenting and childbirth classes? Enough for a master's degree.
Thank God Pinterest didn't exist yet. I had plenty of time to build my baby boy's library to proportions requiring a card catalog. How did I know that Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? would be the bedtime choice for 1,095 consecutive nights?
For nine months, I prepared to be able to give everything I possibly could to the child growing inside me - body, mind, and spirit.
And for the thirteen years that followed, I did. Sandcastles to science fair projects - we did it. We practiced clarinet and wrote book reports and conjugated French verbs. We made Halloween costumes and soccer banners and Christmas cookies. We played kitchen and Play-Doh and Legos and more Legos. And Mario. Can't forget FarmVille. Soccer, indoor soccer, baseball, repeat. Class parties, field trips, and field days. We built robots and competed in FIRST Lego League. And we snuggled - boy did we snuggle.
Last night, I offered to help my eighth grader with his summer math packet that was due today. (Nothing like the last minute, right?) He smiled and looked up at me - "Mom, I got this."
And you know what? He's right.
Every sleepless night, every extra trip to school with the forgotten lunch or instrument, every last minute project, every cheer for a goal blocked or scored - or robot mission completed - they all lead to our babies becoming caring, responsible young adults. And really, who could ask for more?
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