As
a parent, I think it's impossible not to be
(overly) proud of our tiny offspring. After all, every new milestone they
hit is more than just an achievement for them, it's a victory for mom and dad,
as well, and two years old seems to be an especially busy time for little ones.
They are potty training, transitioning to big boy and big girl beds, and
learning how to ditch the little comforts that have consoled even their biggest
tantrums for the previous two years (such
as binkies and bottles). All of this while simultaneously learning shapes,
colors, letters, and numbers. It's a lot.
Every time my son masters a new word or counts just a little bit higher, my heart swells with pride. I, like most parents, think my son is probably the smartest kid around, boasting to family and friends about his (honestly time-appropriate) life developments as if he has just secured an Olympic gold medal. We can't help it, I swear.
Thankfully, however, in the same moment two year olds make your heart grow three sizes, they can bring you crashing back to reality. They do it well, and they do it often.
This week, in mommy and me soccer, my budding soccer star (who still prefers to use his hands and scream touchdown when he makes a goal; it's okay, he can be the goalie), was a perfect angel for the entire 50-minute skills class, which is really saying something for a toddler who can't make it through dinner without at least two meltdowns, three screaming sessions, and a fit of giggles. To say I was proud that he managed to listen and follow directions for the entire duration of class would be an understatement. It was a clear sign of his obvious genius. We were finally turning a corner! The terrible twos were over! We could have left soccer class right then and never come back and my son would have forever been remembered as the most well-behaved two-year-old to ever play soccer. But I didn't. I missed my opportunity. I took his behavior for granted. And as he and his little teammates put their hands out for traditional end-of-class stickers, I was humbled.
My son's playmate—same age as him—took one look at the star-shaped adornments on his hand and promptly exclaimed "Stars!" for all the mommies to hear. Then, as if that wasn't enough, he began to count proudly "1, 2, 3 stars!" His mom yelled congrats, we all clapped and said "yay," my son looked on in awe. And as he got his celebratory stickers—the ones that marked a job well done for the most perfect performance in a toddler class ever—he took one look at those brightly-colored stars, lifted his hand toward his face, and ate them. Just like that, it had all come crashing down.
It was not my first lesson in parental pride, and it will not be my last. I’ll still cherish every milestone, I’ll still gobble up compliments when they’re doled out (I’ll need those moments later when he’s sprawled out on the floor, screaming because I cut his waffle wrong), and I’ll remember to cherish it while it lasts; because if my son has taught me anything, it’s that these prideful moments are fleeting.
--N.
