Quinn Turns Two

Before breakfast, on Quinn's second birthday, I wanted to get her foot prints and hand prints with paint, to add to those I have from the day she was born, and from last year's efforts captured in pink. This year, I poured some yellow latex paint into a shallow plastic bin and then lifted her into it, with her bare feet. Immediately she started to cry. I poured way too much paint, so despite the wrestling and pleading that ensued, I got no prints—just big yellow blobs on paper, and big yellow blobs on clothes and in hair, ours and hers. By the time we were done, all three of us were covered in yellow.

I also wanted to put a mark on the post in the basement, to show how tall she was on her second birthday, but this too made her cry. Sam tried his best to convince her it was a painless process, standing with your back to the post; we pretended to mark each other's height over and over again, pretending we were having tons of fun, but she's not an idiot. Sam stuck with me until I finally gave up, managing to reserve judgment, and determined, this year, to stay out of the eye of the birthday storm. And I was determined not to lose my mind like I did last year. But from the minute I woke up, I couldn't get out of my own way.

Eventually the art projects ended and breakfast happened and Sam packed Quinn up and took her to school. I was home alone, going through my mental list of things to do before her birthday party with Corey & Kellam: clean the house, make pesto, bake a cake, make some ice cream, wrap her present.

I found myself staring at her birthday present—one of those cool little bikes with no pedals, designed to help kids learn to balance and glide. I had picked it out on my own. A badass little number, with bright orange handles, and red and orange flames painted on the bike's black sides. What I realized, as I stood staring at it, was that it was the bike I wanted to want, but I didn't really want it.

The toy store had one other design that I hadn't seen, but they had told me about it on the phone: it had "some grass and flowers and things." Not nearly as cool. Sam was excited about the flames. Corey was also excited about the flames. But somehow the flames made me feel anxious. They made me hyper sensitive to the idea of her entire little-girlhood slipping away too fast—as if buying her the bike with flames would be fast-forwarding her into a future of skinny jeans and piercings and dyed black hair. Before my coffee was gone, I hated that bike.

I hated it so much that I packed it back in my car and then drove half an hour back to the toy store, in time to be there when it opened. I explained that I was having second thoughts on my choice and wondered if I could switch it for the one with "grass and flowers and things." The saleswoman was kind—she clearly thought I was insane, but she didn't say so. These bikes are for two year olds—I knew that and she knew that—and two year olds don’t really care. She was kind and she was also covered in tattoos and her hair was spiky and black. And even though I have nothing against tattoos and spiky black hair, I knew I was doing the right thing.

What I was doing was trying to slow it all down because already it all seems to be slipping away too fast. 

In the year since her last birthday, Quinn has learned to walk and to run and to jump. She's learned to go get her little owl apron when I ask her if she wants to bake with me, and she's learned to stir the batter in the bowl. She's learned to bite and hit, and she's learned to say she's sorry. She's learned how to go up and down the stairs by herself, and how to climb into our deep tub by herself. In the past twelve months, she learned to say a few words, and then a few more, and now she says things like: Dad's big truck. Be right back, Mom. Please, Mom. Thank you, Mom. And when she doesn't want me to do something, or she doesn't want to eat something I'm trying to give her, she says, emphatically, No thank you, please! And when she's sad, or tired, she says, I wanna hug. And, I love you. And lately, she says, I'm two!

Right now, just after her second birthday, I sense this moment of perfection in Quinn's life. She is still so tiny and soft and baby-like, and she is also so fully formed, with so many distinctive traits that I've come to think of as so very Quinn.

But in the midst of this sweet little perfectness there are already glimpses of her growing up. A couple of weeks ago, I actually saw her blush for the first time; she was belly laughing over the sudden loud noise of the food processor when she pushed the button, and she glanced over and saw that Corey was laughing too. One minute she was laughing, the next minute she was burning under bright red cheeks, aware of his attention, aware of herself. How is it possible that this has happened already? How am I ever going to enjoy her birthdays if each year all I can think about is all that is irretrievable? Another thing Quinn has learned how to do recently is climb out of her crib. As I'm feeling a desperate need to hold on, she’s already trying to escape.

I don't know how I'm supposed to handle all the letting go. And I don't know how to break this birthday pattern, but I find myself, again this year, thinking about how crazy it is that you bring another life into the world, through your own flesh and blood, and by virtue of doing that, you love that being more than anything--more than yourself--and what's expected of you next is that each day, for the rest of your life, you let that being go a little more and then a little more and then a little more. And the irony of course is that each day, Quinn is a little more, and she says a little more, and she does a little more, and she gives a little more, and it becomes increasingly harder to do that thing I'm supposed to do: to let her find her own balance...and let her glide.

©2012 Corey Hendrickson - All Rights Reserved

©2012 Corey Hendrickson - All Rights Reserved

Happy Birthday Quinn. 

I love you.