The Drop is not the most advanced of children, when it comes to physical skills. She, of course, doesn’t know this, and thus doesn’t treat her new accomplishments with any bashfulness at all; oh, this old skill? You’re sweet, but I’ve actually had it for ages.
On the contrary, she throws herself at life and expects life to respond with enormous smooches. Everything she learns is a joy to her, her face split wide with excited pride. Look, look, I can roll from my back, see, onto my front! And then back on my back, and then, get this, no, watch, I can roll back onto my belly again! What do you mean you’re going to bed, it’s not bedtime, I haven’t finished showing you my rolling yet come baaaacccckkk.
It’s nights like these that make parenthood so hard to put into words. Even the German language, expert in complex emotions, hasn’t yet come up with a term meaning the sensation of bursting pride at another’s achievements tempered by the realisation that said achievement is wholly unimpressive to the outside world and couple with a level of desperation at the prospect of yet another interrupted night and the near-impossibility of functioning competently at work on the following day.
Suggestions welcome.
