On Worrying

Time goes so slow and so fast. I cannot believe that Amelia will turn one this Saturday. It's nice to have a quiet moment, just now, while she sleeps, to think about it. First birthdays are special times for mothers, and for parents, it's that time when--I remember from the first child--we get to take a breath, realize both we and the baby made it through a year. The baby doesn't have friends yet, well, my baby doesn't have friends yet, so it's not really a celebration for them. I know some families do the "first chocolate cake" ritual, though since I have a strong memory of Samira, daughter #1, not tolerating cake quite well, I think I'll skip that. And presents? I wonder what presents mean to a one-year-old, I wonder when babies learn what it means to receive something new. I've never been one to have a strong narrative about "what babies do." Some people have this. You tell them that your child is eleven months old and they say, oh, yes, they must be going through special attachment. Me, I'm the type where whatever they do seems a big surprise, and I don't remember it in order. I remember fragments of my first daughter's young years, and I'm neither a parenting expert nor a child development aficionado, so when it comes around again, it's all new. So will she know it's her birthday? We'll find out Saturday.

At times I wish I were more prepared with a story line. Mostly though, I'm in love with the surprise. And I've learned this year that while sometimes the normative baby story lines are helpful and reassuring, they don't help when your child jumps outside them. I still have body memory of driving Amelia to the hospital last July, sent there by a concerned pediatrician, to figure out why she had lost two pounds. I'd always taken for granted that my children would be healthy, since Samira always was. This time around, six months in I'm confronted with the shock that not all babies are well. I'm so thankful that mine made it through, and with something very treatable (for new readers: Amelia has some reflux from her bladder). Each night after diaper changing she gets two milliliters of an antibiotic, and she will for years, as much as I'm against such treatment in principle.

So, what am I learning about life, with this baby in hand? The first time around, I worried more generally, about things I can't control, like, will my daughter have friends, will she have open options, will her world be nurturing, will she emotionally thrive? Eight years in, the answers are yes, and I'm confident that as parents, we have the skills to do the same for baby Amelia. This time, I've learned how to lose the big concerns and worry more specifically: will Amelia's bladder valve heal in a few years, or will she need surgery? Will the antibiotic keep working, and if it doesn't, will symptoms of infection be silent, as they were before, or not? Will we catch an infection before it hurts her kidneys? These are new questions. I marvel at their specificity. Still, as a parent, I don't know, even in retrospect, which kind of worry, the general or the specific, is easier.