I know how long each of my children nursed, but I have only a vague notion of when each started solids. I'm pretty sure I could tell you, to within a week, when each of them took their first steps. Sadly, I couldn't tell you my children's first words. I mean, I know they all went through the "mama" and "dada" stuff... but beyond that, I only know that once they started talking, they never stopped. (This is, of course, a wonderful thing until something particularly captivating occurs, such as the opening of a new Super Walmart in our town, a novelty still wearing off three weeks later).
In short, several milestones have slipped through the cracks. I could really beat myself up for being an inattentive mother, especially when I consider the diligence of those excellent women who keep journals of their children's development and all that. I tried to keep a baby book for our first child. I tried, with slightly less determination, to keep one for the second. Babies Three and Four, however... (insert defeated sigh) With those two, I accepted the reality that I wasn't going to write anything down and resorted to simple photo albums. Though I have gads of photos of their darling owners, even those photo albums remain bare paged.
Yes, my younger children have sprinted past several milestones with hardly a nod of recognition. They experiment with and master skills all on their own. Sometimes they catch me completely off guard. It's a good thing I'm not marking every development on the calendar, because in many cases, I'd find myself scratching my head over where to record their accomplishments. They are learning, developing, growing so quickly. Sometimes in the momentary calm of life, I take stock and marvel.
Last night, I marveled at the sight of my gorgeous girl leaning over a book and reveled in the sound of her sweet voice uttering the words on the page. My amazing third child was... How can this be? ... reading!
Here's where I get teary-hearted.
She's mastering the art of reading, a lifelong passport to other worlds. Before we know it, we will lose her to Avonlea and Mansfield Park, Narnia and worlds yet undiscovered. Or rather, she will join us in those marvelous worlds and invite us into those she discovers without our guidance.
She's growing up. She isn't just learning to read. She's learning math and history and science. She's making friends, forming ideas, developing her own sense and style. She's reaching out into her world, testing her feet, and hopefully blessing those around her. In the midst of all her individuality, she's a little girl in whom her mommy increasingly sees herself.
She isn't a third child whose mother fails to record important milestones. She's a third child whose mother is every bit as excited, delighted, thrilled, and wondering over her life as she was (and still is) over her older brothers' lives.
That may be one of the sweetest recurring blessings of having a house full of children. You think - because our culture says so - that its all downhill after the first kid, that you get lazy, stop caring, stop noticing. But you don't. Instead, you revel in the intricate details of each child's life with ever-increasing wonder over each of these amazing human beings in your care.
Even if you don't even know where the baby books are anymore.
