She's an Extraordinary Girl
I just finished nursing Reilly Kate for the last and final time. In a few hours she turns three years old and it's time for us to move onto a different phase. I know what many people think about that. They think, "Eeeew. She's still nursing her three year old?" I know because that is exactly what I ordinarily would think. But nothing about Reilly Kate is ordinary.
Her birth should have given me some indication. Instead of the tranquil, unmedicated birth I had envisioned, I endured medical interventions and mind splitting pain ending in her fast and less than poetic entry into this world. As they laid her on my belly, she let out an ear piercing howl followed by her immediately rooting around for my breast. Her latch was sure and strong. She suckled like one intent on getting what she needed, what she wanted, and quite certain of her place in the world. The pressure on me (and my nipples) was so intense, it made my toes curl -- even just minutes after giving birth.
In an instant I became a primitive, instinctively fierce protector. My love for her ever since is like a fury -- molten, intense, igneous. A crazy delirium, wild and untethered. It is not your average "maternal instincts." It's more than that. And it can be scary living that close to the edge.
Soon after she was born, people began telling us that she was different, exceptional. One day, right after Reilly Kate turned one, my father in law said to me, in his heavy Ukrainian accent, "She is most unusual girl. Most unusual." It's become a repeated anthem in our house, muttered under our breaths when there is simply nothing more left to say.
And there are many exasperated days when dealing with a small child who is so intent, intelligent, insightful, articulate, spiritual, inquisitive, demanding, and dramatic. She not only marches to the beat of her own drummer, but she fully expects others to march along with her. She's fascinating, bewitching, and captivating. I expect I will never fully know her nor understand her. It is this that bonds me ever closer to her.
I long eschewed the label "extraordinary" for her. If she did something that was undeniably extraordinary, I would shrug it off as "just Reilly Kate." Every mother thinks her child is extraordinary, right? If I truely thought that, then perhaps she was just ordinary, right? And so I would sit off to the side, a blind witness, a doubter in denial. Just another ordinary mother with an ordinary girl.
A couple of weeks ago, we purchased Green Day's American Idiot. Mike and I had plugged it in a few times. Then one day while we were driving around town, Reilly Kate started asking for the "Crying Song." Perplexed, I delved around her little brain searching for clues to what it is she wanted. She actually sang a portion of the chorus to me: "She gets so sick of crying." I hadn't a clue what she wanted. Not a clue. I traveled around the radio dial. I put CDs in the stereo. Nothing.
Days went by with her begging me, pleading with me to find her the Crying Song. Her song. Then, after this had been going to for close to a week, Mike was in the car and he popped in this Green Day CD. She again started up her request for the Crying Song so Mike went through every song on the album. When we hit number nine, she visibly relaxed and said, "Yep. This is it. The crying song."
Here are the lyrics:
She's an Extraordinary girl
In an ordinary world
And she cant seem to get away
He lacks the courage in his mind
Like a child left behind
Like a pet left in the rain
She's all alone again
Wiping the tears from her eyes
Some days he feels like dying
She gets so sick of crying
She sees the mirror of herself
An image she wants to sell
To anyone willing to buy
He steals the image in her kiss
From her hearts apocalypse
From the one called whatsername
She's all alone again
Wiping the tears from her eyes
Some days he feels like dying
She gets so sick of crying
She's all alone again
Wiping the tears from her eyes
Some days he feels like dying
Some days it's not worth trying
Now that they both are finding
She gets so sick of crying
She's an Extraordinary girl
There it is. From her very own, little, not-yet-three-year-old mouth. Extraordinary. I am starting to believe it, to embrace it. Though, I'm petrified that I will not live up to the challenge she's tossing onto my path. That pressure I felt the first time she latched on has taken up residence in my heart, making it sing with happiness and fear. She is most unusual, most extraordinary girl.
In the last three years, I've learned to check my expectations, my visions, my ideas of normal and average at the door. I cannot put the structured framework of my own long, anticipated motherhood onto a child who doesn't fit into a box. And if I am still nursing an almost three year old, so be it. If, ordinarily, I would never dream of it, then extraordinarily I actively participate in it. And that is how I came to this day, this time of weaning.
And it is time. The time is right for both of us. She is now a big girl at preschool with friends of her own and a newfound independence. There is a window of opportunity and I am putting us both through it. Not without some sadness. I will miss its closeness and calming effects on us both. I will miss that bond, that relationship. Closing a chapter in any book for me is twinged with sorrow.
But I have to look forward to the future, for if I turn my face to the past, I will miss the moment. And this moment is bittersweet -- my favorite kind of chocolate.
I love you more than chocolate, Reilly Kate. Happy 3rd Birthday, Extraordinary Girl.
Her birth should have given me some indication. Instead of the tranquil, unmedicated birth I had envisioned, I endured medical interventions and mind splitting pain ending in her fast and less than poetic entry into this world. As they laid her on my belly, she let out an ear piercing howl followed by her immediately rooting around for my breast. Her latch was sure and strong. She suckled like one intent on getting what she needed, what she wanted, and quite certain of her place in the world. The pressure on me (and my nipples) was so intense, it made my toes curl -- even just minutes after giving birth.
In an instant I became a primitive, instinctively fierce protector. My love for her ever since is like a fury -- molten, intense, igneous. A crazy delirium, wild and untethered. It is not your average "maternal instincts." It's more than that. And it can be scary living that close to the edge.
Soon after she was born, people began telling us that she was different, exceptional. One day, right after Reilly Kate turned one, my father in law said to me, in his heavy Ukrainian accent, "She is most unusual girl. Most unusual." It's become a repeated anthem in our house, muttered under our breaths when there is simply nothing more left to say.
And there are many exasperated days when dealing with a small child who is so intent, intelligent, insightful, articulate, spiritual, inquisitive, demanding, and dramatic. She not only marches to the beat of her own drummer, but she fully expects others to march along with her. She's fascinating, bewitching, and captivating. I expect I will never fully know her nor understand her. It is this that bonds me ever closer to her.
I long eschewed the label "extraordinary" for her. If she did something that was undeniably extraordinary, I would shrug it off as "just Reilly Kate." Every mother thinks her child is extraordinary, right? If I truely thought that, then perhaps she was just ordinary, right? And so I would sit off to the side, a blind witness, a doubter in denial. Just another ordinary mother with an ordinary girl.
A couple of weeks ago, we purchased Green Day's American Idiot. Mike and I had plugged it in a few times. Then one day while we were driving around town, Reilly Kate started asking for the "Crying Song." Perplexed, I delved around her little brain searching for clues to what it is she wanted. She actually sang a portion of the chorus to me: "She gets so sick of crying." I hadn't a clue what she wanted. Not a clue. I traveled around the radio dial. I put CDs in the stereo. Nothing.
Days went by with her begging me, pleading with me to find her the Crying Song. Her song. Then, after this had been going to for close to a week, Mike was in the car and he popped in this Green Day CD. She again started up her request for the Crying Song so Mike went through every song on the album. When we hit number nine, she visibly relaxed and said, "Yep. This is it. The crying song."
Here are the lyrics:
She's an Extraordinary girl
In an ordinary world
And she cant seem to get away
He lacks the courage in his mind
Like a child left behind
Like a pet left in the rain
She's all alone again
Wiping the tears from her eyes
Some days he feels like dying
She gets so sick of crying
She sees the mirror of herself
An image she wants to sell
To anyone willing to buy
He steals the image in her kiss
From her hearts apocalypse
From the one called whatsername
She's all alone again
Wiping the tears from her eyes
Some days he feels like dying
She gets so sick of crying
She's all alone again
Wiping the tears from her eyes
Some days he feels like dying
Some days it's not worth trying
Now that they both are finding
She gets so sick of crying
She's an Extraordinary girl
There it is. From her very own, little, not-yet-three-year-old mouth. Extraordinary. I am starting to believe it, to embrace it. Though, I'm petrified that I will not live up to the challenge she's tossing onto my path. That pressure I felt the first time she latched on has taken up residence in my heart, making it sing with happiness and fear. She is most unusual, most extraordinary girl.
In the last three years, I've learned to check my expectations, my visions, my ideas of normal and average at the door. I cannot put the structured framework of my own long, anticipated motherhood onto a child who doesn't fit into a box. And if I am still nursing an almost three year old, so be it. If, ordinarily, I would never dream of it, then extraordinarily I actively participate in it. And that is how I came to this day, this time of weaning.
And it is time. The time is right for both of us. She is now a big girl at preschool with friends of her own and a newfound independence. There is a window of opportunity and I am putting us both through it. Not without some sadness. I will miss its closeness and calming effects on us both. I will miss that bond, that relationship. Closing a chapter in any book for me is twinged with sorrow.
But I have to look forward to the future, for if I turn my face to the past, I will miss the moment. And this moment is bittersweet -- my favorite kind of chocolate.
I love you more than chocolate, Reilly Kate. Happy 3rd Birthday, Extraordinary Girl.
posted by The Histrionics of a Fat Housewife at 3:27 AM
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