The Middle

 "It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end." 

— Ernest Hemingway

School starts soon. In just a few weeks, I will be back in college for what seems like the hundredth time. Three classes this semester, three the next, and I'll earn my associate- if, and it is a very big if- I can pass all my classes, which are mostly math. Still, it's so close that I'm beginning to get excited. I've put a lot of time and energy into chasing it, and now, the end is almost in sight.

And I think that's what I like about it. The beginning, the (long) middle, and the end. Wrapped up with a bow. Or a cap and gown. A handshake, a diploma, and a closed door on the work it took to get there.

**

Millie has been a challenge for me lately. I was tempted to write "a handful", but that is what you say in smalltalk to strangers, not friends. It's not the excess energy of a three year old that makes me laugh and shake my head at the end of the day. It's work. It's tears. It's frustration. It's things that neither of us understand. And it is so hard.

I run out of patience just about every day. And after another early bedtime, I tear up and ask myself why. Why am I not getting the hang of this mother thing yet, after nearly four years of practice? Why is everything I try failing? Why can't I figure this out? Why can't I do better?

And I'm beginning to realize that there will never be a leap across a finish line into the arms of cheering onlookers. This isn't a college degree with a notebook closed and a walk across the stage. It's not a recipe, adjusting spices by a half teaspoon until that first bite tastes perfect. Motherhood doesn't have an ending point. It's a day by day by sometimes grueling day. Some of those days will be heaven sent. Some of them will be a test of how many times I can take a breath and count to ten before I speak.

Maybe labor fooled me into thinking that the hard work would come, but it would be followed by an immediate reward. Instead, it's a million, tiny bits of happiness, interspersed by a million more prayers for help and guidance. I would give anything to earn the badge of "finally got this down", but I know it's unattainable. Because even when they are fifty, I won't be done being their mama. And thank goodness.

I like when I can be done, when something is complete, nice and tidy, and I can dust off my hands. But this is the middle, and it always will be.

Maybe motherhood will be like a good book, one that we go back to re-read certain paragraphs because they are magic. One that we begin to mourn when we've made it to the next chapter, to the final pages. One that collects wet tears on the last few sentences, because we want it to go on and on.

 I've got a lifetime of practice ahead of me, but thankfully, I still have some great paragraphs to re-read.

Love Song

“I was walking along looking for somebody, and then suddenly I wasn't anymore.” 

― A.A. Milne

There you were. Placed on my chest and, from the look of the pictures, probably crying your first cry, announcing your newness for the hospital room to hear. It's been a year ago now.

But in my memory, there is no sound. Just your face, and the realization that you weren't a girl like I was so sure of before. Here was eight pounds, ten ounces of baby boy...what did I know about boys? Behind the rush of love, the relief that you were in my arms, and the surprise of how quickly it all happened, there was a tiny part of my heart that was truly frightened. I didn't know how to be a mama to you.

I'd been a mama already, of course, but Millie meant I could match patent leather shoes with ruffled dresses, play tea parties, and do all the things I'd done before in my own childhood. All I could see, holding you in my arms, was a boy who would grow into a man. I wondered, already, when you would be too embarrassed to hug me. I thought about you finding your first love, replacing me in an instant. You were so small, with your soft tufts of hair and your sweet, kissable cheeks.

But I kept thinking about you letting go of me.

The first few weeks of your life were difficult. We rushed you to a hospital an hour away one night for a surgery, and I've never felt so helpless. I looked out the hospital window to the sparkles of the city, and wished I could fix everything for you. But, oh, you were brave, sweet boy. And through my tears, I watched your courage and felt my own grow.

Millie was always more independent and sure of things. I was surprised to have someone who seemed to need me more. You always craved me close by. You wanted to be held every moment. It was such a sweet blessing to feel that weight of you nestled up on my chest, breathing dreamy breaths and soothing my soul.

You have changed much in these twelve months; first smiles and first steps, sitting up and wobbling to stand, chatter that sounds like "mama" and "vroom"ing sounds with your cars. You are cheerful always, and your heart is so kind and so good. You will do anything to make me smile. You point to the airplanes in your room every time you wake, because all things are new with you and you want them to be new for me, too. Walter, I have been so proud to watch you grow this first year. I am so glad you will be a wonderful man someday. But for now, I am so glad that you are still my baby.

You spent this year doing many things. One of them was reassuring me.

I can't write songs, but if I could write one, it would be a love song.

And if I could write one, it would sound like you.

The Cherry Pie

 "It is good to love many things, for therein lies the true strength, 

and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, 

and what is done in love is well done." 

— Vincent van Gogh

There was a list of things- some written, and some only remembered- of all I wished to accomplish before I turned 30. Lofty goals and hopeful suggestions of the girl- the woman, I suppose- I would become when the calendar reads September 18th and my twenties fade out like the porch light at dawn. I don't think I have reached any of them.

But today, I baked a pie.

I'm still six classes away from earning a degree.

But I measured, tapped, and swirled the flour, salt, and baking powder together, a cloud of white dust in a white bowl.

I'm hopeless when it comes to reading music well or learning aperture and shutter speeds, and I'm still very far from the trip to England I've dreamed of since I was little.

But I cut in the chilled shortening and dribbled the ice water into the crumbs, just how my mama advised.

Sky and I have such a long way to go before happiness.

But I looped the apron over my neck and tied it around my waist. I sprinkled the soft flour over the table, then smoothed it around the wooden rolling pin. I slowly poured the cherries tumbling into a patchwork crust, covered them with the other crust, and made a wavy zig-zag around the edge with my thumb and finger. I used a fork to make tiny holes like I was perforating a dark sky with shining, scattered stars. I closed the hot oven door, and opened it fifty minutes later to a yellowed, crumbly, sweet-smelling pie.

I can't cut hair, change a flat tire on the side of the road, start a lawnmower or weed eater without thinking bad words, pick out a pair of glasses I like longer than a week, fold fitted sheets, make an efficient grocery store trip without running through the aisles for something forgotten, or learn how to let go of past hurts.

But I can sew up tears in treasured stuffed animals, and pull the weight of a red wagon and two babies behind me. I can make imperfect birthday cakes, kiss sore knees, and exclaim bright praises of finger paint pictures. I can brush hair into curly pigtails, read library books twenty times over, and find pacifiers that were tossed behind cribs. I can buy a tablecloth and candles for his party and only cry a few tears, and I can assure her that it's her turn next and she'll have presents, too. I can weigh the dreams I have with what is truly important, and let a few of them flutter away, while holding on to the ones I value and will remember when I am eighty five and reliving these precious days.

And I can bake a pie.

Daily Bread

 

 "The best things are nearest: breath in your nostrils, light in your eyes, flowers at your feet, duties at your hand, the path of God just before you. Then do not grasp at the stars, but do life's plain common work as it comes, certain that daily duties and daily bread are the sweetest things of life." 

— Robert Louis Stevenson

The laundry is tumbling in the dryer- his just-washed uniform, her little pink nightgown with the teddy bear print, and baby pajamas that still have breakfast stains down the front. The scent of cooling cherry bars on the stovetop circles around our apartment, mingling with the chilly breeze blowing through the screen door. The little ones are asleep. He is at drill.

And about five hundred times in the moments between waking and closing my eyes again, I look around at this house. At the Legos covering every inch of our living room floor. At the dishes I need to wash by hand. At the grocery list that needs to be written, and the beds that need to be made, too. At the bits of cereal still stuck to his tiny cheek, or the hair clip that threatens to fall from her hair. So much to do every day. All of it undone.

Five hundred times, I look at it all, and want to forget about it for a little while. Five hundred sighs.

And five hundred times more, I whisper a 'thank you' underneath my breath, raising my hands in thankfulness that these tasks were meant for me.

A Visit

"Mama's love had always been the kind that acted itself out with soup pot and sewing basket. " 

— Corrie ten Boom

 My mama was here this week, visiting from Oregon. She read a million stories, morning, noon, and night.

She read them to fairies or princesses, and little boys with chubby hands.

She rocked and soothed, hugged and snuggled.

She baked a cake and cooked homemade spaghetti sauce, as only she can.

She gave more than one tea party, with tiny china cups and important conversations.

And she brushed teeth, said prayers, and tucked in for the night.

My life as a mother matters so greatly.
I know this without a doubt,
because this lady who gave me my name matters so greatly to me.

And I know it all the more because of how much I am missing her tonight.

A Star is Born

"There are shortcuts to happiness and dancing is one of them." 

— Vicki Baum

Finally.

She'd waited patiently since December 25, when Santa Claus gave her a little gift box with that pink uniform. But it was such a long wait.

And at last, it was time to become a ballerina.

She slipped on her tiny leotard and tights, and pink leather shoes like a real ballerina wears.

I whisked her thin hair up into a little knot of a bun. As I swept up a section here and there, gathering it into my hands, it seemed as if every movement made her a little older. As if she was growing up three times as fast this morning.

And yet, when we arrived and she stepped into line in that chilly studio, she found herself the smallest of the other girls, despite being so tall. They must have been the four year olds. But Millie held her own.

After we pinned on the name tag to the front of her uniform, she tried chatting with nearly every student, even though most were too shy to respond. She shook the teacher's hand, and giggled to me once she had. After all, it was like meeting a celebrity. A real ballerina.

The class began, and I could only watch through a little window crowded with other parents. Every few minutes, she would remember I was there, turning to give me a big wave and a smile. It's the kind of moment I imagined the first time I held her. I just didn't imagine such a small gesture could make me cry.

I watched her stretch and spin, skip and clap, and take a big bow with the rest of the class.
My heart was bursting through it all.
She was a miniature Degas painting, twirling in pastels.

I write so much about her brother. But this special day was Millie's day. 

I want to remember that time won't stop for her, either. To remember that she's still little and to treasure it while I can. I want to celebrate her. To encourage her. To show her grace. To find the grace in her.

And to be proud of this little girl in pink- the one with the impish grin and the hand waving desperately for the teacher's attention.

And to be so grateful she belongs to me.

I Love You Like This

For my two little loves-

You warm me like my morning sips of coffee, saturating my rib cage with comfort and my lips with sweetness.

I love you the way the flowers love new spring days, pushing past dark soil to find sweet breezes and pale sunshine.

You frightened and delighted me as if I were on the edge of a diving board suspended high above a blue pool. I unknowingly inched closer and closer, finally taking a leap into something large and deep and consuming.

I love you the way the fragile stars love the night sky, clinging to it to keep them above the sadness of the world.

You give me the feeling I've only ever felt the first time I saw the ocean, my landlocked soul breaking free into the coldest water and most enormous crashes of sound.

I love you the way my name was fitted to me, or I was born in the middle of this great, wide country; I was meant for it, and you were meant for me.

Bigger than any poem I've ever hoped to write.
Better teachers than any professor in front of a dusty chalkboard.
Sweeter than anything else this world could ever offer me.

You make me believe I was meant for a life I've only just begun to live- the life of being a mother to you.

I Know This Much

"Even a soul submerged in sleep is hard at work 

and helps make something of the world." 
— Heraclitus

At night sometimes, when your eyelids fall and your head sinks heavy against my shoulder, I study you. I take in every soft strand of hair, every wrinkle on your small fingers, and all the light sounds that you breathe onto my cheek as you sleep. And as much as I long for those moments to linger a little longer, I can't help but think about your tomorrows.

Though you are far from speaking your first word or taking your first step, there is so much I know about you, sweet one. Mamas have a way of being right about these things.

You will be kind. You'll be tender hearted. You will make me so proud with the way you care for others. You'll include the little one the other kids leave out. You'll spread cheer with your wild, gleeful grins, and you'll be witty. The world will be happier with you in it, as it already is.

You'll be wise. I can tell you are now. Just like your sister, you will be full of big words at a young age. You'll be inquisitive and thoughtful. And we can hope you'll catch on to math better than your mother.

And, of course, you will be handsome. I've never seen a more beautiful boy. Those eyes of yours, now colored by oceans and skies and sapphires, may someday fade into a gentle green or steady gray. That strawberry blonde hair may deepen into a auburn to match Millie's. And many, many years from now, your wife will stroke your wrinkled brow and hold your worn hand, but even then, you will be dashing.

Walter, your life will be large. Even if it is a quiet life without fame or much money, it will be grand and shining in the way it touches the lives of others. Your life will matter on this earth. There are so many reasons that you were born, even if the very first reason was for me to love you. You were made for this time in history. You were purposed for things beyond your biggest dreams. As sure as I know my own name, I know this.

So rest now. Have the sweetest of dreams, and know that they just small fragments of what's ahead. Sleep soundly, because you have so much to do when you awake.

Assurance

"This moment contains all moments." 

— C.S. Lewis

It's okay if I hold him long after his eyes are closed.

Sometimes, the only sure thing in the world is this. This, and the God that gave it to me.

Pleasure Itself

“Later she remembered all the hours of the afternoon as happy -- one of those uneventful times that seem at the moment only a link between past and future pleasure, but turn out to have been the pleasure itself.” 

― F. Scott Fitzgerald

It took a few minutes. 

I waited until the sleepy smiles and twitches and sighs dissolved into a heavy sleep. I put my hand on his chest and felt the warm up and down against my palm. Snuggled in next to me, molded into the length of my arm, I shifted just a little and read.

To a reader, but maybe even more so to a writer, books are food. They grow me. Heal me. Teach me things I know but have to see in print to understand. I've been reading the same, thin book for over a year now. Life just seems to get in the way. I sighed, thinking how sweet this rare, stolen moment was.

But suddenly, his miniature self unfolded from a tiny ball and there were arms thrown haphazardly across me. He felt like a little radiator of heat, heavy and squishy heat. Then he stretched out his arms like an airplane, soaring into dreams that must have been about food by the way his pink lips moved back and forth. I waited until he was still again, and turned the page.

I would read a few paragraphs and then he would stir. I bounced back and forth between two worlds, one in writing and one in my arms. Once my book toppled over and I lost my place. But I found it again.

I would put my thumb into his hand and he would curl all his fingers around it and I would cry because it is my favorite thing. And then I would read a little. And I would inhale his baby smell that will fade so quickly, and then I would read a little more. I would smile at the way something so small could spread over so much bed, thinking how his wife will have to elbow him to move the way I always have to elbow Sky. And I would read a little. His breaths and noises like a cooing dove in the morning worked their way into the lines on the page, molding a sweet story. The best part of the book was when I couldn't tell what I was reading and what I was living. All I knew is that the print mingled with the soft sounds and it all looked the same in that afternoon light.

Most parts of motherhood aren't how I pictured them. Nearly all of them aren't, in fact. 

But some are. Some are.

New Strength

"With the new day comes new strength and new thoughts." 

— Eleanor Roosevelt

Yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, we struggled. She pushed and I pulled. We exhaust ourselves over and over.

This morning, we looked out the window and saw trees that God must have colored with a set of highlighters, brushing some leaves to the ground as he drew. We snuggled on top of the wrinkled up quilt, and chattered about Walter, and why he wears diapers, and why he swatted at her nightgown. I switched on the coffee maker and poured milk into her cereal.

She smiled a smile of forgotten yesterdays, and I gave her a hug of fresh tomorrows. And when I sunk into the couch with a full mug of coffee, she said, "Mama, can I sit on your lap?" Yes, baby. Of course you can.

Pay no mind to yesterday. Yesterday is done.

Today is a new day.