It's Time for Some Baby Talk

I recently published an article in a site for moms regarding our upcoming adoption. In my article, I mentioned briefly that we intend to adopt a child who is between the ages of 2 and 8. I have plenty of reasons for wanting to adopt a child in that age range. I feel called to adopt an older child. I want to give a family to a child who is not likely to be adopted otherwise. My daughter is about to turn four, and I want her to have a playmate. All that being said, I have one more reason that is far more compelling than all the others. I have kept this reason largely to myself as it breaks even the most sacrosanct rules of motherhood: I am not a baby person. There. I said it. Someday my daughter will call this blogpost Reason #497 for Why My Mother Makes Me Need Therapy.

Don't get me wrong; I have always loved my daughter. I have always thought she was the most incredible, wonderful, amazing human being I have ever met. However, I've also had days when I thought Angelina Jolie nailed it in referring to her first biological daughter as kind of a "lump" in her first few months of life. I've always felt this way. I am not fascinated by tummy time, and infant toys often make me long for the peace and quiet of a Guns 'n Roses concert. I think baby clothes are cute, but I resent any article of clothing that requires an instruction manual to wear. I like offering to hold my friends' babies, but I also like to give them back - some faster than others. I am simply not a baby person. Without the fascination in all things baby-like, you really just have a lump (and one that requires enough diaper changes to make you think Indian food isn't so bad for your digestive system after all).

I thought through out my pregnancy that I would surely become a baby person when the baby was my own, but I was wrong. I loved spending time with my baby daughter, but I also loved going back to work. I loved cuddling her when she was still plump and stationary, but the second she started crawling our cuddling hours were replaced by days on end of "How Did We Not Know Our Home is an Infant Obstacle Course with Sharp Edges and Falling Things?" The result was endless hours, days, and weeks of chasing my baby around, trying to keep her safe, and not really having the appropriate fascination and pride in her early days as a card-carrying pedestrian. Instead I bought stock in a childproofing company around the same time, thus marking the high point in my enthusiasm for that stage of life.

As my daughter gets older, I am no more of a baby person than I was three years ago. I hear friends and coworkers extolling the glorious wonders of babyhood, and I respond by reading facebook. I hear my siblings discuss the possibility of procreating, and I begin to wonder if it's time for another dog. I see babies out and about with their mommies and think, "You look like you're about four months old. I bet your parents haven't slept through the night in at least 120 days." It's not exactly the stuff dreams are made of.

However, as my daughter gets older I also found myself enthralled with the person she is becoming. I am finally one of those people who can say that I am fascinated by my own child! She has the funniest things to say and do, and her three year-old commentary on the world around her is hilarious! I am not so far gone that I expect the rest of the world to be equally interested in her every spoken word, but I certainly have more mommy stories to share than I have in years past. Now I get it. My daughter is an intriguing little person. She is more than just likes and dislikes (yay for strained carrots, pass on the strained peas). She has opinions, and she has reasons for her opinions. She has goals and dreams. She has an imagination that keeps her constantly on the go, and she shares all of this with me. I have never loved any stage of parenting more than I love the stage we're in right now.

Of course, I can't see how everyone doesn't agree with me either. Six months ago I looked at my daughter in the throes of the terrible threes and wondered what on earth would make a parent look at that particular stage of toddlerhood and say, "Hey! Let's have another!" as so many parents are wont to do. Now that my daughter is past that stage and safely ensconced in a fun, curious, loving, humorous person stage, I still can't imagine wanting to start over. I can't imagine having to leave her to play by herself as she imagines herself galloping away on a horse in the Sahara - all so I can take care of my newly procreated lum- I mean, baby.

So there's my confession. I am not a baby person. I am fairly certain that my confession alone is enough to get me kicked out of any mommy group that still involves new parents, but that's why the only mothers' group I'm in says it in the title - Mothers of Babies *AND* Big Kids. I'll take the latter, thank you. I love kids! I love playing with most kids, talking to them, learning about their perceptions of the world. My affections simply don't extend to babies. I loved my baby. If, in a crazy twist of fate, I ended up with another infant, I'm sure I would love him or her as well (because even I am not so far gone that I will call an infant "it" - here's looking at you, Greta!). I simply wouldn't elect to have a baby, just as I don't elect to spend more than an hour or so in the presence of most babies. There you have it. My amazing little person is no longer a lump, and I don't miss her baby days. Why would I? She has never been more fun than she is today! She is still cuddly, snuggly, and sweet. She still has a distinctive softness all her own. Now, however, she has all this in the walking, talking, independent-thinking model that is an almost-four year old! Call me a mommy with a missing link. Call me a woman without the mommy gene. Call me whatever you want, but just remember that this means you can have my turn holding most babies, looking at their pictures, and choosing their clothes. I'll be too busy having a conversation with my toddler anyway!