My daughter, Lylah, just turned 15 months old. She is growing every day in her independence and self-realization.
She is no longer an infant, without needing me to feed her or nurse her. But she is not yet a toddler, who can attempt to express her feelings and communicate her needs.
The physical, emotional, and mental changes of this tiny human have forever altered my sanity as her mother.
Like most, I grieve the end of my child being an infant.
It was uniquely draining, but mostly simple and predictable. It feels that this change has occurred just as I got comfortable. (Go figure). Also like most, I must look forward to her being a toddler.
Every outing is an adventure, the zoo and beach become exciting, and I finally get to hang scribble artwork on the fridge! How much fun does that sound? My very own creation will become more than a blob of cuteness that poops a lot with this new enhanced cognition.
*BREAKING NEWS* That transition from infant to toddler does not happen overnight.
15 months old is the first of many awkward stages my daughter will go through in her life. 12 teeth scattered across her tiny mouth. Hair not long enough to style. And an ugly personality change that is putting this Mama THROUGH IT.
Becoming a toddler means my daughter is learning how to express her feelings by using her language skills.
She knows how to say the important words like “dada”, “no”, and my least favorite word, “nom”. At this age, most pediatricians expect children to know three to five words. And as every woman can tell you, that is not nearly enough words to properly convey one’s feelings.
And as every man can tell you, adding frustration from a lack of understanding on to an already emotional person leads to a total body meltdown. It’s not a cute look on her.
Becoming a toddler means they have started exploring the new realm of throwing a fit.
This includes screaming and crying with an increasing pitch thanks to those lovely language skills. However, in this stage my child has also learned mobility, meaning she throws herself all over the place without fear of injury like a tiny linebacker.
Her head has hit the coffee table so many times I considered selling all of our furniture and living in a padded house to match our lack of mental stability.
Bribery has now become my best friend as her mom.
A simple peace offering of a split MilkyWay has immediately reset any fit into a feast. She still enjoys the classic Cheerios and milk, along with some cheese or apple sauce. Most recently is the introduction of a sandwich, or as I call it, the super power sandwich. My little girl ate half of my lunch, so I am hangry and she is the energizer bunny.
Nap time is a toddler mom’s best friend. Except it’s not.
With this newfound energy of my daughter, it must be channeled in a way to approach nap time.
This approach has the fine borders between over tired and not taking a nap for 3 more hours. We read books, play with toys, but a fan favorite is having a dance party. She is very particular about what songs she likes, and hates when those songs end.
Lylah’s playlist include Post Malone, and the very dreadful Baby Shark. Just when the erratic dance moves become less dynamic, and I have nearly run out of songs to play, thank goodness it’s nap time! *insert angel’s singing*
Nap time is this mom’s best friend. Except it’s not. After going through all of that, all I want is a moment for myself. Which turns into 2 hours of a Netflix binge, or a terrible nap full of anxiety, or even checking the mail every 10 minutes just so I can be outside and let the sun wash away the ugly feelings I have inside.
Just when I feel better and attempt to start the never ending to-do list, my tiny human has the audacity to wake up from her nap that is never long enough.
Can you guess what happens next? Yup, you’re right. It starts.. all.. over.. again.
Where are all my Todfant moms out there? Or is it Indler? I’m unsure of most things these days, as well as how to enjoy this awkward period of ugly.
But in my opinion, It. Is. Okay. To. Not. Enjoy. Every. Minute. Of. Our. Kid’s. Lives. There it is, my ugly truth.