I’ve been thinking a lot about loss lately.  What that means, in so many aspects of everyday life.  What it means on a grander scale.  Loss is something we all experience and have an intimate relationship with.  We each deal with it differently, as individuals, as cultures, societies, but there is not a single person that has not been touched by loss on some level.  And the spread of those levels is amazing – to some, the experience of loss is so minimal that it is not even considered; to others, it is so great that it is felt at a catastrophic level, wrenching breath from body.

I consider myself to be a somewhat logical, stable person.  Yeah, my mood can occasionally swing faster and harder than Barry Bonds on the ‘roids, but overall, I think I present myself as a pretty functional member of society.   One of the manifestations of my particular brand of depression is my ability to imagine loss – to mourn the imaginary.  A movie in which a family member dies has me in tears over the inevitable death of my own parents.  A song presents that truth that one day Tim and I will be separated similarly, and I can’t decide which would be worse, to die first, or to be left living without him, and I find myself a blubbering mess.  It’s almost comical, really, the ways in which I let myself lose control, let my imagination go crazy, and the emotionally-wrought  Becky that follows.  It doesn’t happen often, thankfully, but it almost always surprises and embarrasses me.  As if there aren’t much larger issues in the world to spend one’s emotions on.  Alas.

We took our baby girl to the pediatrician last week for her four-month checkup.  (It’s hard to believe it’s been four months already, and yet, it’s equally hard to believe we ever existed without this joyous being in our life.)  When the doctor mentioned that we could start feeding her cereal, it was like a hand reaching in and squeezing my heart.  No, we cannot start feeding her food.  To do that means admitting that the wonderful place we are at with breastfeeding will someday come to an end.  And soon!  And those half dozen times a day that I share with my bug – nurturing her in a way that only I can, as she looks up at me with those big blue eyes – would be one step closer to ending.  I refuse to transition into having a baby who eats!  And as I’ve come back to this over the last few days, I’ve slowly been coming to terms with the fact that this is what parenthood is.  It is loss.  Continual loss.  Of who that little person is right now.  Of who she was yesterday.  But it is also discovery.  Of who she will be tomorrow.  Of watching her come into her own, watching her realize she is her own being, developing and growing into what that means.  And these realizations are helping me remember to be present with her every day, every hour, every smile and giggle and wiggle, to enjoy her for who she is, and be okay with the loss of who she was yesterday.  I still don’t have any intention of starting her on food yet, we’ve got time, but I know it’s coming.  And knowing that is helping me put loss into perspective, and helping me understand that letting go, slowly, is also what parenthood is.