Sunday, April 14, 2013

Mommy Meditations. A letter to my kid. =)

I sit in my usual morning-place, squooshed up to the family computer, perched on the ottoman that has served us as a desk chair for the last several years.  My little boy is waking up with strawberry milk and cartoons, about 10 feet away, on the living room couch.

(Covered in lots of snuggy blankets.  Cause that's how we DO.)

I browse the internet as I slowly wake up.  And I think about how unbelievably
quickly life moves. . .

I sip my coffee.  Perform small coffee contemplations.  I make hazy possibly-we-could-do-this-but-it's-not-written-in-stone plans for the day.

I think about everything my boy and I did yesterday while his Daddy was at work.   The fun we had visiting family and friends, doggies and kitties, and listening to music and chits and chats.  I feel a surge of gratitude.  I hold these simple, unremarkable, and wonderful times with him like jewels in my hand.  I marvel at how the seemingly unimportant things we did on some random Tuesday are now being sewn into the quilt of his childhood memories.  I wonder about many things, great and small, varying from "what is the nature of life?" to "why HAVEN'T we bought a real computer chair, and made an honest desk out of her?"

I listen to my little boy (the one I waited for for a decade, the one I was beginning to doubt I would ever actually see) walking around and alternating between mumbling under his breath, and positively screeching, as his daddy tries to sleep.  . . .

"Ash!  Da-da. . . da-da-da-da.  Da-DA!!  Ash SHOES da-da. . ." 

And I think to myself that I don't even care that he's not saying 20 - 24 different words (as the pediatrician indicated he should be), because the ones he IS saying are making up the most beautiful song I think I've ever heard.  And the joy I find in being here with him. . . in doing nothing but being here with him. . . makes me feel as if I'm gonna burst.

Now, even as I write this, I think to myself:  "Some people are going to think you're full of shit.  Some people will say:  Nobody's happy ALL the time." 

And they would be quite right.

I'm not happy all the time, either.

I'm moody, and overly-sensitive (personally, *I* don't believe that last bit is true, but my husband swears to it, and so I will give him the benefit of the doubt), and prone to anxiety.  I can be a verifiable WRECK at times, and to deny it would be untruthful, and just a complete waste of time, besides.

But I sit here, and I think.

And every once in a while, I look up and stare into the den.

And there stands this little boy. . . still in his soft pajamas, curls all over his head, strawberry milk droplets on his shirt and untold amounts of snot (I'm sure) on his sleeve.  And he is walking around singing to himself, and brandishing a plastic sword.

He sings, and he slashes the air with his weapon, and wipes at his nose, and smiles at me when he catches me looking.  (Which is a lot.)  He looks for a kitten to cross his path, a kitten that might be picked up and carried around, smooshed tight to his little chest, in his best approximation of "I'll care for you, sweet thing."

. . . And I don't even know when this happened to me.

I don't know WHEN was the moment that I became this huge softie . . . and I'll admit to being a little confused, a little flummoxed.  Because I've always been a bit of a bad-ass (in my own mind), and because this tendency to morph into a puddle of feelings every time a certain boy lights up a room. . . it has sneaked up on me and caught me quite unawares.

But I look at him.  This sturdy little boy that loves sweet things and saltines, outlaw country music and kitty cats and back yards. . . and suddenly it's just all OVER me.

And all I can think is:  This is going by too fast.  Please slow down.  I'm afraid I'm going to miss it.

Oh dear God. . .

What if I miss it??


And the thing is. . . I will.

I will inevitably miss something.  Something important.  

I will be feeding the cats, or taking up the tea, or switching the clothes over to the dryer. . . and I will miss it.

I won't see the smile.  Or the belly laugh.  Or the happy-dance.  Or his sweet little growing brain put two and two together and get four.

The fact is that I am human.  And I'm not going to see it all. I'm not going to get to marvel over every second of it.

I'm going to have to pee sometimes.

So for all those little moments that I'm gonna miss, and for all those times when my head is killing me and my angel has not STOPPED asking questions all day, and for all those times when I WISH I had taken 5 seconds to NOT respond in anger, but I didn't because--again-- I am human. . . I would like to say this:

I see you.

I see you just as you are.



I am fully present for this moment that we're sharing, and I see you for the person, and the child, and the miracle that you are.

And it's too damn much.  (In a good way.)

And mommy's crying again. 

(You'll roll your eyes at displays like this when you're older, I'm sure of it.)

But your mom has been given the gift of perspective.

It is heavy to hold at times. . . this all-the-time knowledge that so many suffer.  Are suffering.  Are confused, and cold, hungry, scared, alone.

It keeps me up at night, many nights.  Worrying and weeping for people I've never met, and a few that I have.  And for the longest time, if you'd asked, I would've told you it was a curse.

But I look at you. . . and that's all it takes.  The tears come.  They're tears of gratitude, and I really don't know what address they should bear.

But they're there. 

You're healthy.

You're happy, and safe, and WELL. 

And it is so rare.  And it is more than I could ask for.

It is, honestly, such an enormous gift that I can't even comprehend it. 

So mommy cries. 

She cries for happy reasons, and for all those people that don't have their happy reason right now.

And this over-sensitivity, this "too-much-perspective". . . as heart-breaking as it can be to deal with at times. . . is starting to seem less and less like a curse.

More and more, it is starting to feel like a gift. 

A gift that. . . maybe I haven't 100% figured out how to use just yet.  . . . Like those dreams that I have that I'm levitating. . . then I wake up and can't figure out which muscles to flex.  The knowledge is there. . . on the tip of my brain.  But I can't figure out how to reach it just now.

So I'll wipe away tears, and I'll get you more milk.

And I'll just feel grateful, for right now.

Grateful that I was here for this.  Grateful that I saw you, and grateful that I was seen.

And that will be enough.  =)

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