Our Last Lunches: An Ode to My Firstborn
BY DEBORAH PRITCHETT
Photo Courtesy | Deborah Pritchett
For the past few months, my two-year-old, Penny, has chosen to eat lunch on our dining table bench instead of in her highchair. In hindsight, I wish I’d thought to proactively protect the bench from her messy eating methods, but alas, the beige upholstered bench is now stained with strawberry and marinara splatter.
Penny’s unborn sister will be making her arrival at any moment now. That looming life change makes mediocre moments like lunch on the bench unusually emotional. I have an album on my phone titled “Our Last Lunches”, and in it are about twenty photos of her saying “cheeeeese” for my iPhone camera, seated behind her colorful little plate of toddler approved food.
While I prepare for newborn days with our second daughter, I have been reflecting on the newborn days I spent with Penny. When she was a newborn at the beginning of the pandemic, somehow even walking her around our local park seemed like a risk, but I chose to take her on long walks every day anyway. It was the only way I knew how to quickly bring about some silence, and I enjoyed that sweet, still sound for as long as my legs could last, knowing that she would wake up the moment I stopped moving her stroller.
When she was six months old, and thankfully a much better sleeper, we moved in with my parents for a year. While living there, we were just minutes away from one of my favorite coffee shops in our corner of Dallas/Fort Worth, so naturally I took her there often. The coffee shop is within walking distance of a New York style pizza place, and as she aged out of eating mostly just bananas and avocados, I offered her little bites of their big, thin pizza slices (an instant favorite).
When she was eighteen months old, we moved out of my parents’ home and readjusted to having a home of our own again. Now, after dinner every night she likes to take a walk around our block. She holds her dad’s hand while she balances on the stone retaining walls like a little gymnast. She pauses to hug trees. She sprints toward the playground at the end of the street where the road bends, as the swings come into sight.
I came across a tweet on Twitter recently as I’ve been in this season of savoring sweet memories. The tweet by @camilleruth21 says that “a kid’s growing autonomy becomes a sort of threat” and that “watching your child grow up becomes a sorrow” when a parent’s insecurities cause them to believe, consciously or unconsciously, that as their kids age, their closeness to their child diminishes.
The timing of reading this tweet also coincided with a trend I encountered on TikTok. Users paired videos of their children with an audio clip. The male narrator in the clip describes how “you have little kids for just four years.” He calls this time a “peak experience in life” and reminds listeners that “you don’t get it back.” Most Tiktok-ers who participated in this trend either made sentimental videos lamenting the days when their kids were tiny, or current parents of toddlers made videos, prematurely grieving the end of their current season of life.
As someone currently in this so-called “peak experience” of life, even though I want to cherish moments like Penny’s and my last lunches and current routines, I also don’t want to make idols of them. I strongly relate to the emotion of already missing the days that I’m living in, but I also long for and am excited for the days that are ahead. I want my memories of this time to be realistic. I’m living in some really good and precious days, but am I really living in the good old days? Now? More than one stranger in Target has told me that I am, but I may question that sentiment on days when the two year old tantrums are plentiful, or in a few weeks, when I am pulling all-nighters with a newborn once again.
This might sound ridiculous to some, but I’m excited for Penny to be a teenager. I’ve been surprised as a “girl mom” at how many comments I’ve received about girls being cute littles but nightmarish teens. Contrary to this trend, I grew extremely close to my parents in my teen years. I don’t expect my relationship with my own kids to look exactly like that, but I don’t want to expect the worst either.
I want to remember these special, final days with Penny as my only child, but I feel challenged to refrain from believing that I’m living in the “good old days” right now, and that we’re currently closer than we’ll ever be. I’m excited to be her mom in all of the seasons we’re given. I don’t want to rush this one, but I also don’t want to prolong it and delay what comes next for us. With each passing year, I want to celebrate all that we have experienced, and rejoice because of what we will get to share with each other.
Penny is nearly two and a half and I still haven’t finished her baby book. It’s hard to find the energy to record the cute moments of raising her when I’m busy doing just that: raising her. But I have recorded some snippets here and there, like my “Our Last Lunches” album, and like this story. I even teared up today as I penned her daily routine to give to her grandparents. They will be here at any moment to watch her while her dad and I are in the hospital with her sister. I wanted to make sure they knew that “Dino Ranch” is her favorite show, that Dino Nuggets are her favorite lunch, and that “corn”, which is actually Pirate’s Booty, is her favorite snack.
Maybe I’ll stick that routine in her baby book. It’s still got a lot of room, but we’ve got a lot of time.
DEBORAH PRITCHETT is a stay-at-home mom who lives in the Dallas/Fort Worth metroplex. She has a daughter, Penelope, is married to a really cool guy named Derek, and is expecting another baby girl this Spring. She entered motherhood at a young age, one month before a global pandemic shocked the world. Now, two years into mothering, those circumstances are still defining her unique parenting experiences and inspiring much of her writing.