On the second night, we were still whispering. I tiptoed across the room and whispered a question to Becky. Also in a whisper, she began to respond and then, her train of thought interrupted, asked me in a normal conversational volume, "Why are we whispering?"
"I don't know," I answered, at the same volume level. I looked at the empty bassinet, and then at the screen on the video monitor, which showed a black-and-white Grace sleeping happily in her crib down the hall. I looked back at the bassinet, still propped up to alleviate Grace's reflux, which was now more askew than usual, tucked further back in the corner with the lamp awkwardly shining its full payload down on it, illuminating every bit of the inner bedding.
After 11-plus weeks, we had our room back. We could converse. We could have both lights on. We could put the white-noise on at our leisure. Heck, we could even watch TV. I'm supposed to be relieved, right? So, why is my mind congested with the thoughts of summer camp, cars at 16, and even college? Why, alongside the joy in seeing my little girl grow up before my eyes, do I have this gnawing little pain in my heart?
Parents always tell children that "the hardest part of being a parent is letting go." This usually follows some epic battle between parents and child, the parents stubborn and reluctant to let the child do something he REALLY wants to do because they feel it's "too grown up." Certainly, I don't regard Grace's graduation from bassinet to crib as "too grown up," but I was more reluctant than I ever thought I would be to let it happen, despite 11 weeks of lamenting the inability to watch TV in my own bed. When I saw that little face on the video monitor, however, and not in the bassinet in full color, my heart sank a little bit. "Oh my God," I said. "This is what I've always heard about, but never understood; this is the pain that accompanies letting go."
Children grow up; I've learned to accept this inevitability. I was, after all, a child myself once and, despite my undying belief as a child that I would never grow up, I have (sometimes, I think, unfortunately). But, it never occurred to me how difficult it would be to accept, nee let, my children grow up.
I don't want to appear as if I am bemoaning my daughter's milestones. I am going to celebrate and look back with a bursting heart on that first word, those first steps, school plays, dance recitals and all the rest. The delight all of these occasions is going to bring me is impossible to deny. Equally impossible to ignore, however, will be the little heartaches each of these occasions are going bring. Because with each step she takes forward, this little blank slate gets something else written on it.
I know that she will always be my baby, but she won't be a baby for long. I guess the heartaches we get from watching them grow up are destiny's way of reminding us who they start off as and not to let them stray too far from our hearts. I know in a matter of days seeing her in her crib will not seem strange and the bassinet will probably be put in storage. But the intervening time will better acquaint me to yet another heartache that accompanies parenthood.
