Little observations of a mother:
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Emma:
The house is quiet and still. It is the kind of quiet and still that only comes in the early morning hours. She sits criss-cross on the floor at my feet, my fingers entwined into the mass of her golden hair that is slowly becoming a braid. We say very little. I am still coming awake to the day, but she- she has gotten up in the dark by herself, prepared her own breakfast, applied her own mascara, gathered her own things, and knows exactly how many minutes she has to spare before she has to walk out into the cold to catch her bus. I look now at the elegant line that begins just behind her ears and continues down the long curvature of her neck and out to the far corners of her shoulders. Where there once was a small child, now sits the most lovely fair-skinned young lady who’s height and wit and beauty has far surpassed mine. She needs me less and less. She no longer needs my help pouring a glass of milk, very soon she will fly across the country on a plane by herself, and every day she makes independent and responsible decisions without any input from me. This is the goal of mothering yes, but it always leaves the most bittersweet taste in my mouth. Moments like these where we sit together in the quiet of the morning help to soften and sweeten the heavyhearted thoughts I have about her slow departure from me. I watch the gentle heave of her breath and the way her long legs fold in on themselves. It is such a magnificent mystery how a small child can grow into something that stretches so far beyond your wildest dreams. As I finish she stands, kisses me on the lips, and says “Thank you mommy”. My oldest baby.
Hannah:
I rub her back as she shivers in the cold. We are on the side of road near the top of the pass. She has asked me to pull over so she could throw-up. After a brief period we agree it was a false alarm and continue on to the road to her swim meet. She is in crisis. Standing by the side of the pool she begs, cries, pleads with me not to make her swim the next event. I remind her that all 100yd butterfly races are won primarily in the mind, that she can make her body do anything her brain tells it to do. I recount for her all the hours that she has trained for this. I tell her to believe in herself because I believe in her. She covers her tear-filled eyes with her goggles and makes her way to lane 3. I stand at the other end of the pool sending all the strength and all the courage I can muster to the girl I love up on the starting block. I admit my heart races for her. If I’m honest, I wonder as well. Can she do this? Will she do this? But then she dives in and leaves her fear behind. She leaves it behind so quickly that it is no where to be found after 4 laps. She touches the wall a winner. Fastest time yet. And we are both stronger now.
Laurel:
I’m in hysterics. Who is this girl and what has she done with the usually quiet and reserved other version of herself? The tears are literally streaming down my face as I watch her twerk around the kitchen. She’s got tons of flavor and I could never move with the kind of rhythm and freedom that she moves with. How does she even know all the words to this song? I laugh even harder as I remember how she told me the other day that the clouds made her feel as if we were living in a witch’s lair, and how the shirt I picked out for her was uglier than a bad bad hairdo. With lice. She surprises me this girl. Sometimes it’s with a sudden burst of zaniness, or an imaginative use of vocabulary, but mostly it’s the way she loves. Wholly. Without any thought for herself. It comes at a time in my life where this feels like a rare gift. I tell her these things. I tell her that she gives a love like I’ve never had before. I thank her. She can’t see it I know, but she pats my arm with her hug and asks me if I’ve ever googled anything on the topic of, “how poop comes out of your butt?” More laughing.
Ian:
I haven’t seen him for a few minutes and that always makes me nervous. I stop and listen for a second and can hear his voice down the hallway. I let him play undisturbed in his room for a little while longer, thankful for the opportunity to finish some chores. Soon, however, my curiosity gets the better of me and I cannot stand it any longer. I tip-toe to just outside his doorway. He squats like a frog with his back to me- knees in his armpits and bottom to the ground. Around him on the floor is an innumerable amount of toy trains. He doesn’t know I am there and is lost in his play. He acts as all of the characters in his make believe scenario. I love listening to the nonsensical sounds and the different voices that he uses. I can’t even really make-out the imaginary plot… but he gives himself to it fully. These are the most divine spaces of time for a 3 year old boy. There is no challenge imposed on him to share with a playmate, no verbal requests flying at him. (Ian can you put your shoes on? Ian can you please pick up your legos?) No places to be and no times to be there. Free unstructured play time. I smile and feel grateful to witness life being lived free to whim. He looks up at me standing nearby and asks me to play with him. Without hesitation I join.
