Tonight

Putting her to sleep tonight, she was mad and I sensed the enormous valley of her childhood behind us. I felt a craving to connect so profoundly and the loneliness of being unable to reach her, though I was right by her side.

It could’ve been yesterday when my eyes swooned to the fresh eyes speaking to mine. We would snuggle in silence, our bodies so familiar and feeling mostly one. I still anticipate talking with a bold and brash four-year-old, uninhibited by conscience and curious to no end. I still expect to walk in on an eight year old unencumbered by modesty.

It used to be so easy to come together at the end of the day and feel light as she drifted off. We would read a picture book and then I would sing her songs. She would tell me stories. We would chat for what seemed an eternity. I would rub her back and wait for the heavy breath that signaled she was safely off to sleep. Sometimes it took so long I would doze off too.

These moments are becoming memories as I tread new ground and hit barriers of her independence. I respond with a heart wrenching immediacy to tell her how much I love her. My unspoken words are how full my heart feels in her childlike presence and how cautious I am to face her adolescence.

Tonight I am taken by a tidal wave of overwhelm. It encompasses both the plight of an overworked mother, who doesn’t have more time to give, and an underworked mother, who should be mastering so much more. I could sense all the hours I’ve wasted and all the ways I'm failing this beautiful being. Her silence signaling she is moving off on her own and I am merely on the trail left behind in her wake.

She has always been her own universe but now she expands exponentially. I can’t deny this dwarfing feeling as I calibrate my place in the new realms of her existence. I am left spinning; incessantly stroking her hair and aching for a lullaby to set it all right. Her back is turned towards me as she clutches her tattered and worn lovey.

How am I just now realizing we have been moving this whole time? Home was just a silly word that I believed anchored us to one way. We are coming and going at our own pace, all of us orbiting our singular fate.

This mother connection draws me to a ceaseless ache in my heart growing with each passing breath. I wonder will we ever again be as close as we are even now? The spiral of this journey seems to tighten as our emotional proximity loosens. My breath getting more shallow as I come to these thoughts. I could cry because I cannot stifle the growth. I fear all that we shall stumble upon in the coming years.

I keep telling myself I am the mother, I must act like the mother; and yet still I feel so much like a child in the dark.

Mothering

Take me with you into the adventures of your life. 
Show me the things that get you excited. 
Tell me why you want to try something new. 
I want to bear witness to your living, I want to be a part of your dream. 
I am a moon orbiting your world, watching from afar. 
Occasionally you look back at me and feel my glowing presence.

Come to Jesus

Last night I ripped off the worn, ill fitting, loosely hanging bandaid called "Santa". Mads and I were alone and I asked her for a moment of truth and honesty: I asked her if she still believed in Santa. To which she academically replied, "Mom, there is no way one person can travel around the world in one night and give presents to every child."

I had a sneaking suspicion she was holding out for the gifts and she was the last kid standing in our house. I called her in for a hug because it was music to my ears. I know I sound like a Grinch but to be honest, I am just glad we are all out in the open about this now. I can happily load stockings and put things under the tree in a timely manner. I don't have to worry about hiding gifts that, if found, have to be wrapped and replaced with other gifts. 

It sounds crazy, right? It is. This is what we do to ourselves during the holidays in the plight to make our kids feel good; to make ourselves feel good. Though I love the magic of Christmas, it is a tiring commitment. 

This morning when Mads and I got up, I moved the elf in front of her, removing any lingering questions. It felt strange and low but also liberating. This is clearly a new phase we have entered and I couldn't be more excited. I still will happily share the magic of other kids but for my family, now maybe the beach at Christmas will seem much more appropriate.

8. The List: Memories from my Childhood Christmas

My mom had many candles around the house, especially on her dining room table. I remember these clear candles with gold flecks speckled through them. They were long and skinny and stood in candelabras on the dining room table, which was usually somewhat set with an ironed table cloth for an impending meal (though most of the time, the room served more as a ghost).

At Christmastime, we would unpack large boxes that lived under the basement stairs; they took up all the space in one of the most intriguing childhood hideaways in the house. The boxes stored garland and ornaments and a variety of other holiday decor, including a few candles. One was stored in its’ own box within the bigger storage box. It was white and heavy; square and probably stood 8” high. It had glitter on it so it caught light similar to how snow would and each side was textured like I had never seen. You can imagine as a child I loved to dig it out and wanted to light it; but each year, it retained it’s glory because my mom never wanted to burn it.

This candle has haunted me throughout my adult life. I’d put money on possibility that if I went to my mother’s house and unpacked all her Christmas stuff, I would find it still stored away. Most likely the edges and corners would be round from wear, but I doubt it ever got burned. This is what haunted me the most. I’ve had some good candles in my life; some so beautiful I too haven’t wanted to burn them or they served as a reminder of time past or an old friend. Still, I choose to light them, enjoy their scent and the happiness I have when they’re part of my environment. Then, I find a new candle.

I told Maddie about this candle tonight in a rare moment that turned into parenting genius. She was pouting about handing on her Elf PJs to someone who actually fit in them and had become so lightened by her gesture. Maddie couldn’t enjoy that moment of giving. So I told her about the candle and about how things come and go (or we grow out of them). I tried to illustrate why it was important to release good things go in an attempt to allow other notable items to come in to your life. It fell on deaf ears. However, she completely understood the absurdity of having a candle and never burning it. So when I connected the dots, she turned over and went to bed.

Burn the candle.

Deep Thoughts 3.0, chapter 1

I no longer have a toddler. Sorry to realize I haven't captured half the funny things both girls have said to me in their innocent observations. Still, things come up in conversation that are delightfully naive. Version 3.0 captures the braintrust of both my hearts as they navigate this big world.



Can you pause the book?
I'm reading the book... It's me... There's no "pausing"...
Yeah. Pause the book. I want to go look at that bug.

I wish we could hear dogs words so we could hear them.

Now THAT was a fart! (self congratulatory)

I can see that your hands are ticklish.
(and they're going to tickle you.)

I'm not scared of anything but monsters. Because they could be alive, like water snakes.

They guessed my favorite color was blue. And then Story guessed it was Turquoise but then I told them it was aquamagreen.


 Misunderstood lyrics
Ooh Woo, I'm a rebel with a kickstand. (Portugal. The man)

We made this city all over the world. (Starship)

Parenting 101

The moments that will win me an award...

You're going out to dinner tonight? I want to go!
You can't go; it's for adults.

Yes. I can go. I'm grown up.
No you can't. Where I'm going is only for adults.

Where are you going?
Out. Just, out.

Where?
The Children's Museum. (but it was a retirement party.)