scribblechic

When you were first born the moments between your birth and our introductions were an impossibility of hurried anticipation.  You were so long a part of me that I felt unfamiliar alone, the cradle of my arms vast and hollow in your absence. When at last I could marvel over the perfection of your familiarity I squandered endless moments memorizing the lines of your emotions, unguarded in your innocence.

I still look to the shape of your posture and the melody of your gait for the truth of your experiences. I do this with your sister, too, but I learned this language with you. Even now, as you preserve thoughts and dreams for yourself, I read the untold worry and barely contained enthusiasm in a language you do not know you speak.

There is an often stubborn angle to your shoulders, an amusing indignation reminiscent of your toddler self, assured and undeterred in your persistence. You wear love with the unguarded bright eyes of newborn devotion that boasts loudly and unapologetically of  loyalty. Humor and harm are more fleeting sentiments, sketched in dimples and furrowed brows that punctuate the truth of your tenderness.

I think of our first day on so many end of school days, waiting for a delayed hello as I wonder at the story behind the swing of your limbs and marvel, still, at the miracle of love that we cannot name and yet read so fluently without language.

Love you.

Mom

In motherhood I have transcribed an entire language shaped with little more than a look. From across the table or playground, in a room full of strangers or snuggled beneath a book – there are conversations that occur without words. My children beg for space as loudly as they seek shelter, beckoning me near or pushing me away with a quiet plea.

This morning at school I pulled my car cautiously to the curb just shy of students gathering into class lines, honoring my daughter’s standing request to approach her day independently. Gone are early mornings of hesitant goodbyes or wide swinging waltzes down neighborhood sidewalks. She is efficient and particular about this practice, my daughter has mapped this moment of her day in her mind and I adhere to her need for space.

Most days I watch her with a carefully intentional casualness. My gaze falls just close enough to measure her movements for hints to the mystery of her thoughts, lonely for the cursory glance that fills my uncertainty with knowing. Today, rather than burying her eyes in the sidewalk or peeking to her peripheral to ensure her space, my daughter sought me with a smile.

Volumes of love in an unguarded gaze spoke of confidence and uncertainty, joy and wistfulness. An entire conversation twirled in the air between us before she said goodbye with a wave, her smile lingering in her absence.

Such a small gesture, a look, tethered to a lifetime of borrowed glances. A story strewn silently across the years.

This past year my most consistent companion has been distraction; I seem to muddle through moments misplaced between thoughts and critiquing myself unkindly in the absence of answers for familiar worries.

I worry about my husband’s career or his physical and emotional health; the three have become almost inseparable as he navigates new choices. I look to my son’s quickly approaching milestone as he transitions to high school and question years of intentional efforts that seemingly undermine the confidence I thought I had crafted but cannot seem to find. Then, I look to my daughter, her own uncertainties pulling me further into new doubts.

Meanwhile, laundry gets lost between unfinished loads and groceries are forgotten on store shelves; appointments written intentionally onto calendars are overlooked in my daily routine and habits are shuffled into intentions. Small mistakes unfamiliar to my experience have become anticipated oversights leaving me lost in a familiar place. Eager to redirect my attention and energy I began mapping personal goals from popular posts that highlight what to do, not do, avoid, give up, or hold closely to in order to be productive, content, inspired, fulfilled, and happy. The list of lists creating a sense of desperate disorientation in place of direction.

I am sharing this because in a playfully apologetic exercise in humility I recently confessed to a company of parents and educators this very experience; noisy parental worries and clumsy failures. In the moment I was letting go of self-perceived domestic deficiencies only to be greeted with a most generous compliment; what I deemed as a shortcoming another welcomed as honesty. One moment of imperfect vulnerability created a consensus of community.

Rather than uncovering an equation for contentment in neatly organized lists, I am finding small moments of intimate clarity in everyday accidents of insight. In a world that seems to reward answers, I am discovering a greater sense of self amid questions largely unanswered. Stumbling over errors into understanding with each ungraceful step.

I have been thinking a lot about the minutes and hours that define pieces of my day. The necessary routines, good intentions, and overlooked opportunities. Infinite lists of things to do and finite amounts of time.

This week my children were gifted an unanticipated extension of their school holiday and I was relieved of the frenzied herding of sleepy children through the morning routine of rushed breakfasts and forced demonstrations of hygiene. Instead we woke when our bodies stirred naturally from the depth of our dreams, ate when hunger interrupted our thoughts, and lingered in pajamas long after a civilized hour. Teeth were brushed and beds were made only as concessions for lazy pastimes.

Today I turned off the volume on my phone, logged off the temptation of social media, and halfheartedly moved through obligatory housekeeping tasks. I failed colorfully at small goals, but reveled in borrowed moments with both children. I let go of distractions and held fleeting moments more closely, mindful that lost opportunities in the present burden the future with a debt against time.

When met with a compliment I feel a sense of earnest remorse for kindnesses unearned. I want to pin my errors alongside my blessings like laundry strung boldly across my home. I fail colorfully, noisily, apologetically each day; impatience gets tangled in expectations and perspective cluttered with emotions. It is a messy task, mothering, and I am as much a novice today as I was the moment I first held each child. I unfold each day with equal parts fascination and terror, gratitude and humility as I tend to my lessons in raising a family of individuals.

My wisdom is fleeting, I am master of nothing as each day challenges yesterday’s certainty; each truth tempered by experiences that rarely duplicate themselves. Tomorrow I wake a fool anew in search of certainty that I have loved unconditionally and learned intentionally, for anything else would be unreasonable to assume and impossible to measure.