Lessons From My Tiny Teacher: It’s No Longer About Me
One thing most moms can agree on: your little one drives you up a wall! Another absolute we might all acknowledge is these little annoying, imaginative, curious creatures really can teach (or at the very least remind) us of a few fundamental truths. You know, like the familiar, but oft-forgotten “treat others the way you want to be treated” or the foundational “sharing is caring.”
We all have those hilarious, infuriating, enlightening (or all of the above) moments with our kiddos that remind us of these lessons we were taught way back in the stone age when we were little tikes. Here, I share with you teachable moments brought to you by Matthew, my feisty, gutsy, spunky tot who’s taught me a thing or two since he came kicking and screaming into my life! Enjoy, but more importantly, take note.
This week my two-year-old tiny teacher reminded me that it’s no longer about me.
Last week was particularly trying. Aside from the basic hustle and bustle that comes with being a working mom, I had to have surgery. It was rather routine, but, as expected caused major setbacks as I had to slow WAYYYY down in order to recover.
And as I did, family came to the rescue (thank God!) to help out with my little one. As we all sat holed up in my apartment, one-by-one we all became a little stir crazy. In order to give my boy some relief and allow him to release some of his two-year-old energy, once daily I strapped him up in his stroller and took him out for some fresh air.
My grandmother has been a God-send throughout my recovery. From cooking meals, to picking up after my little guy, she’s held it down while I’ve hobbled around trying to help out as I can. One day, however, she needed a little break so she stepped out for a grocery run. It was mid-day when she decided to leave. “Perfect,” I thought. Mid-day equals nap time for Matthew so maybe, just MAYBE, I’d have a few moments of quiet time to get some work done and unwind solo dolo.
I drug Matthew to bed and sang him our signature sleepy time song. And then, I watched as he slowly dozed off. But just as his breaths started getting heavier (a sign he is, indeed, knocked out), Matthew popped up—and threw up. That’s right, right when my half-healthy, half-handicapped self thought I was going to have a moment or two to myself, a few minutes all my own, Matthew vomits. All. Over. My Sheets.
WHYYYYYY? I thought. I took a moment to take in what was really going on. What had he eaten? Was he allergic to something? Sure, the kid gets sick from time-to-time, but vomiting? So not my kid’s thing. What in the world was going on? What kind of bad karma had I brought upon myself?
So I hopped as fast as I could to get him clean clothes, so he could take off his filthy ones. I ripped off my sheets and pillow cases and as I did, I resolved myself to the reality of my life. No matter what—it’s no longer about me, it’s all about my boy.
Of course, nap time was out of the window. Instead, we settled for bath time and got the boy all fresh and clean. It seemed he had an added burst of energy post-upchuck so instead of quiet time, it was play time. And as we played, I reminded myself that while my village can help out as much as possible, when it comes down to it, in sickness and in health, Matthew can always depend on his mommy. After all, it’s no longer about me—he comes first.