There's No Use In Crying Over Spilled Milk

There it was. All over the kitchen counter. But there was no use in crying over it.

I had spilled the milk. Liquid gold. And really, after 13 months, I was surprised it hadn't happened sooner. Transferring breastmilk to bottles is a process I do not take lightly, but treat more like bomb disposal. The goal: Do Not.  Spill.  The.  Milk.

So last night, I took a deep breath and mopped it up with paper towels, reminding myself that:

this was not a big deal. 

It was, however, one of those mommy-fail moments when the guilt just lodged itself right in the middle of my throat, and the reminder that I had just spent a half hour of my life pumping to no avail left me reeling in self pity. It required a BIG SIGGGHHHH.

But then there was this...

The reminder that I had a healthy, happy, hilariously fun toddler who meets me at the baby-gated stairway entrance of our house each day, bouncing with delight to see me.

Who knows how to "hug" and gives the very best ones of all (besides my hugging-loving husband, of course!)  

Who immediately stops to "sing" and sway, caught up in the moment (like "Desperado" just came on for all you Seinfeld lovers), when music and/or my mediocre singing strikes up.  

Who can locate her eyes, ears, nose and toes upon request.  

Who has the cutest version of the word "that" around.  

Who has 101 "Sosie faces" that entertain and surprise, but the very best one comes with a crinkle of the nose. 

Whose tendency to tote her life-size stuffed animal "friends" around the house deserves an aaawwww every time.  

Who could go head to head with the Energizer Bunny for "going and going and going and..." (He's getting old, after all.)  

Who won't can't wave yet, but will clap for anyone coming or going. 

Who always sits like a lady at the dinner table...

And suddenly, there really was no point in crying over it.

A year, it seems, has come and gone as quickly as the milk spread across the counter. And now a toddler has taken over my house. I find little use for the gym anymore. I can get a workout chasing my playful mini around in the comfort of my own home.

Our nights typically end with my husband and I sprawled on the living room play mat in a friendly verbal competition over who is - A) most tired, and B) most achy - as Sosie flits from room to room. This, folks, is the part of parenthood I will not miss.

My toddler certainly has her less-than-graceful moments (when the words "no" and "diaper change" arise) or on days that attachment is at its height, but her resiliency and playful spirit are infectious. She may be coy with strangers at first, but her thoughtfulness is evident, and "no sooner than they looked that they loved" because she ends up giving sideways smiles as if to say, "You're OK. It's time to play," in the end.

She is a daily reminder that life is full of wonderment and joy, which is easy to lose sight of the older I get, the more responsibilities I have, the less time I have to share with those I love. It's a gift, to be fulfilled, experienced, enjoyed. An intoxicating blur of reality that I never want to end.

This is how it should feel.