Maxim had just been pushed to the life that I was already looking forward to her first smile on his face. When it was a done deal, I had one wish: to hear my baby laughter. That day has arrived somewhere in the fall of 1998.
My excitement before his laughter only lasted a few days. Quickly, I started thinking about the day my chip would be able to sit alone. Then to where she would lift her little ass to the ground finally get to see her in the crawling. And two legs.
So I wait for her four months to finally have him shove a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. So I wait it finally proceeds to pureed carrots and apricots. So I wait for her to swallow the ti-Motton. So I wait for her to finally eat we like cheese burgers or bacon-chic steak tartare with mustard of Dijon.
I do not understand why she did not yet have a conversation with me when she blew her first birthday. She must wear Pampers when he sang happy birthday for the second time. She does not know painting with gouache without spilling everything all around the box when it celebrated its third anniversary. Its four years, she was still unable to tie his shoes alone. And it happened when she forgets the letters she wrote her surname when it celebrated its five-year period.
I can not wait it more autonomous. It no longer requires my attention 24 hours a day. She is able to breathe without I'm in an area of 15 square meters.
Once I had a chance, I would deposit on the ground. As soon as I could, I urge him to play alone. As soon as my mom mandatory tasks - feeding-change-of-layer-bath - were finished, I put in a swing in a park in his saucer in his Jolly Jumper. Everywhere except in my arms.
My father often said that I pulled on my ears so she would grow older faster. No question of butting it. He is absolutely right. I was unable to enjoy the moment with my eldest. Enjoy it as it was. I always thought of the next stage of psychomotor development envisaged in the Better Living 1998.
It's sad when you think about it. As if I was ever satisfied with the progress of my chicken. As if I could not accept my child as it was. As if it was never enough to satisfy the hyper-demanding mother I was.
Not that I did not spend time with my chip. It annoys me. Or that I regretted becoming a mother. No, no it was not that. I loved my baby more than anything. I just wanted it to be still greater. Always better. Pathetic
same.
So pathetic.
Totally pathetic.
Pathetic because there, the big knock on doors of adolescence worse I would kill for her to return to the days when she frisked around my 4 ½ with his little fists in the air shouting " Po-Po-La-La-La-La-Po! ". At the time she wanted to comfort themselves with me in singing "The night after the short day ... The day after the short night ...». Where I got up four times a night to put the breast. Where my educational rules was limited to "No! Do not touch that baby! "
Where was all his life.
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