I left my kids.  As I drove away from the house, Little Friend clung awkwardly, the way only four-going-on-two-year-olds can do, to her grandma’s hip.  She sobbed.  Little Friend is not a pretty crier.  Her mouth snarls and she chokes on sobs and her eyes redden.  I left anyway, and I didn’t cry.

Two hours later, I was ready to go home.  Ready to re-pack my overnight bag and return to the sanctuary of home like I used to do on pre-teen sleepovers when homesickness built into actual vomiting, and I called my parents to pick me up in the middle of the night.

It’s not easy for a mama to leave home.  First, there’s the logistics: trusted babysitters to align, meals to prep, emergency numbers to leave, heartstrings to stretch.  Second, there’s the routine: we get so entrenched in marshalling the foot soldiers for the daily campaign that we maternal generals worry about leaving the battlefield for even a momentary trip to the latrine, let alone for a few days of R&R.

I haven’t had a break from home and children for quite some time, and I felt ready for it.  I felt the need for a break in the anaemic split-seconds that separated a whiny plea from my temper flare.  I felt the need for a break in the initial reaction when I heard the first morning peep over a monitor or first saw a tangled bed-head stumble from her room: my reaction, I’m ashamed to say out loud, was “Oh no.  They’re awake.”  This, fellow mothers, is an excellent sign that a mama needs to leave.

For some time, I’ve been day-dreaming of being away from the constant drains of caring for two young people.  Then, within hours of achieving this dream, all I long for is to be drained by those two little ones.  Oh sweet mama irony.

So here I sit on my few precious days of R&R with my husband and the ghosts of children who climbed into my luggage alongside my pjs and toothbrush.  These ghosts cling to my knees, exclaim over the pink elephant in the gift shop, and tug my hands toward the stream rushing along the forest path.

We’ve come to the woods for our getaway.  Just a few hours from our house is a luxury lodge that hugs the border of a state forest.  We hike trails through a forest of hemlocks that were seedlings when William Penn surveyed these woods.  We hear wind whisper through tissue paper leaves.  We hear the thunk-scrape-shuffle of our feet on the spongy forest floor.  We note the conspicuous absence of the car-bus-plane-train-boat symphony of our home.  We fill our lungs with thick breaths of sweet-pine air.  We admire  Mother Nature’s deft daubs of sunlight on moss, trunk, and stone.

This break away from home is rejuvenating in body and spirit.  With all senses tingling from our trip to nature and the parts of me that are not Mama unfurling like the innermost petals of a peony, I feel refreshed.  I can’t help but be reminded of Henry David Thoreau’s now classic journey to the woods.  ”I went to the woods,” he writes in Walden, “because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

In my pre-mama days, I used to teach Thoreau’s words to my classes of Honors English students.  How I adored those students who sat like open-mouthed goslings, allowing me to stuff the fodder of learning down their gullets, fattening their livers with Fitzgerald-Hemingway-Bradstreet-Miller-Thoreau-Whitman-Salinger.  Yet, for as much as the students may have learned, I, out of all the bodies in that classroom, may have been the most fortunate learner.  Here I am, years later, on my woodsy balcony with my computer, indie music in my ears, tea in my cup, thinking about what Thoreau might have meant in his comments about the value of heading to the woods.

Back when I was discussing woods-visits with my students, I used to think that the living of life happened in the woods. I thought Henry David was all about moving to a forest to make some life-magic happen.  Thinking now about Thoreau’s words, I wonder if I was wrong.  Sure, he went to the woods because he “wished to live deliberately”, but maybe the woods weren’t the location of living but the location of reflecting.  Maybe the woods were a break from normal life.  A break that allowed him to see more clearly what was important and precious about a real life being lived elsewhere.

I left my kids.  I’m glad I did.  Surely we all need a break away from the “kids” in our lives–those important things that demand our attention day in and day out.  Important things that we need to leave for short breaks to evaluate and soul-search: “Are we living deliberately?  Are we living the essential facts of life?”

Thanks to my interlude in the woods, I will head back to my deliberate life with a better attitude.  With more spare seconds to wedge between the whine and temper flare.  With an excitement to see my little bed-headed ugly criers.

Halfway through our forest hike this morning, we found a plaque at the intersection of two trails.  Stabbed on stake into the forest floor, the sign described the rarity of these ancient woods and offered up the words of the Romantic poet William Cullen Bryant (another acquaintance from my classroom years): “Enter this wild wood and view the haunts of nature.  The calm shade shall bring a kindred calm…”

I plan on packing the ghost of this kindred calm into my suitcase and hope it rides home snug and safe next to my toothbrush.  Mama may leave, but mama always comes back better, and calmer, for the leaving.

Bag still in hand, shoes halfway off his feet, he’s subjected to demands (pick me up and go ______), stories (today we went to _____), complaints (Mama said I couldn’t ______), and requests (can you take the kids so I can ______).  Thrown into this whirlwind world of women and end-of-day frayed nerves and puppy dog-ish frenzy, Big Friend has one inexplicable response:  A smile.

There’s a whole bunch of World’s Greatest Dad paraphenalia floating around out there.  I eye it suspiciously, because I don’t think it’s a fair contest.  Unless all of those “Greatest” accoutrements end up orbiting Big Friend like a kitschy asteroid belt, I’m of the general opinion that they’ve landed in the wrong hands.

In our humble little world, Big Friend is certainly the Greatest Dad.

He’s without complaints when it’s bathtime and I’m picking up the kitchen and he’s singlehandedly slaying dragons who want to climb up his arm the second a drop of water touches her head and beasts who refuse to give up her mermaid “tail” for working human legs even after all water has long since drained away.

He’s without electronic devices  to distract his attention when left to wrestle squirming, screeching bodies that alternately beg and refuse to be tickled.

He’s without a side-kick to help when one child NEEDS to go potty in the middle of a swim lesson, and he’s left to dangle one girl from the armpits who demands to be allowed to lick the men’s room floor while the other girl gets stuck halfway in and out of a wet bathing suit and plasters bits of damp toilet paper all over her naked bum and legs.  The bathing suit, of course, is the kind that criss-crosses in the back, stumping all fathers everywhere and for all time as to how those particular female garments actually work.

Little Friend, Little One and I are so very Happy this Father’s Day that the world’s greatest dad in our life is so indispensable, irreplaceable, and perfectly suited for dealing with us in all our glory.  Amen and God bless the man.

That’s why, even when we’re tempted to cling to him every waking second to demand his time, attention, jokes, tickles, hugs, and kisses, we all acknowledge the Daddy Sanctuary: a locked bathroom door behind which he’s allowed all the quality time he needs with only his electronic devices to keep him company.

Happy Father’s Day, World’s Greatest Big Friend!

It’s been awhile since I looked at the moon.

I wouldn’t have looked for the moon last night unless I had just finished reading 1Q84 by Haruki Murakami.  It happens to me often with a powerfully written book that the characters and messages linger on my skin after I’ve turned the final page like a house wears the perfume of a fish dinner cooked hours before.  Among many images in 1Q84 is a unifying thread of people noticing the moon for the first time in a long time, a metaphor for awakening to the world around them.

Do I stop to listen to the world around me often enough?  Do I go blindly, deafly, mutely forward and assume I know exactly how it’s all supposed to turn out–and exactly which way moons and letter Ds are supposed to face?

When I stop–thinking, assuming, overlooking, rushing–will I hear more?

Will I hear Little One laughing as I rub noses with her at bedtime?

Will I hear Little Friend singing “God Bless Amiracle” while sequestered in her room at quiet time?

Will I hear the longing to be with Mama that’s behind Little One’s wordless babble as she tugs at my knees or in Little Friend’s requests to “talk in voice” with a stuffed animal?

And will these sounds catch my ears fresh enough to turn over, smooth out, and tuck away in a memory box bathed in backward-moonlight?

This post is shared with Lisa Jo Baker’s Five Minute Fridays.

You’d think after ten years of living life alongside one another, we’d have more pictures of ourselves alongside one another.  The fact of the matter is, we have lots of recent pictures of kids.  Of him with kids.  Of me with kids.  Of kids with kids.  But a scanty pictorial chronicle of our recent years together.

Spin back through ten years of iPhoto pictures, and the balance shifts.  Lots and lots of pictures of us.  Him and me. Fabulous trips.  Delicious meals.  Goofy adventures.  We were in the “falling” part of love.  That initial love that we tumble into is a narcissistic love.  We gaze at our beloved with rapt wonder that someone so perfect could exist.  We–he and I–become the center of each other’s worlds.  The center of the photograph.  The subject matter that the camera lens just can’t break away from it’s that magnetic.

We should fall in love exclusively.

We should continue in love by falling in step with one another.

Over the past ten years, including the recent years which seem to have a scarcity of couple pictures, he and I have merged lives together in a way that splits us apart in pictures.  He empties the dishwasher while I brush wispy hair into ponytails.  He chaperones the swing set while I commandeer skillets and pour milk.  He holds tight to small hands against the suck of ocean surf while I stand behind a camera lens and click away.

The lack of our recent photos of us–him and me–now that’s something to cherish.  It means we’ve weathered the narcissism and obsession of the early years.  It means we’ve found our balance with one another knowing that together we can cover more ground than a mere camera lens can capture.

I’m glad to have fallen into this love and life with him.  I’m glad that in or out of pictures, we’re covering a lot of ground together.  I’m glad that love is no longer something rare we’ve discovered and hoarded but rather has stretched to become something like a Snuggie–warm, comfy, and large enough to accommodate two people with some room to spare.

Happy anniversary, my Big and Best Friend!

This post is gratefully inspired by and shared with Lisa Jo Baker’s Five Minute Friday!

Kids are great imaginers.  But then their legs elongate and carry them into adulthood, and we think they leave behind their imaginations tucked in a corner of an outgrown jewelry box.  The truth is, imaginations grow into adulthood, too.

Mothers imagine how big kid hands looked as newborn fists wrapped around a finger.  Mothers imagine how cherubic toddler cheeks will look hollowed out and ready for college.  Mothers imagine the mean things that can happen in a school cafeteria.  Mothers imagine the kind things that will sprout from her child’s heart.  Mothers imagine the good things that will wait along the trajectory of a life-like rest stops along an interstate to refresh, refuel and nourish.  Mothers imagine the dark things that can smother joy.

As we grow up, our imaginations get bolder, sneakier, more mature, more convincing, more encompassing.  We dream on bigger scales with bigger stakes: our home, our family, our children, our selves.  The scary thing about adult imaginations is that, unlike the voice of roses, our imaginations have the power to create truth.

Our imaginations can create a family of four where once there were only two.  Our imaginations can decorate a nursery.  Our imaginations can fashion whimsical fruit animals for school lunches.  Our imaginations can plot a summer bucket list.  Our imaginations can plan the perfect family vacation.

Unfortunately, as powerful as they seem, our imaginations are no match for a four-year-old’s.  We imagine an adorable last-day-of-school outfit.  Our hands lay it out on a chair.  Our eyes twinkle as we present it to the preschooler.

But her imagination has the final say: “No.  Just no.”  And with a flourish, her imagination takes over, usually with something like this:

Or something like this:

Thank goodness, moms, that as we sit at the preschool end-of-the-year ceremony, our imagination has had a lifetime of practice dreaming big because we’re able to imagine the preschool graduate becoming the high school graduate.  She can dress herself however she like: she can’t stop us from imagining her big heart, her bright future, her warm tears, her innate promise.  In the end, a mom’s imagination is ready to create truth from any challenge.

This post is inspired by and shared with Lisa Jo Baker’s Five Minute Friday.

Today’s guest post comes from Alexis Bower, an accomplished 2013 graduate of Williamsport Area High School, who has asked “What will I do with myself next?” and answered with wisdom beyond her years.  No matter what our stage in life, we are all beginning something.  Alexis’s thoughts on commencement speak to each of us.  I’m thrilled to share her insights with you as we all strive to sew beauty in all circumstances of life.

On Dandelions, Softball, and Life

Does this flower look familiar? Is it a thing of beauty or a lawn destroying weed? Graduates of the Class of 2013, we’re a lot like dandelions. Throughout our lives we’ll be tempted to make a mess out of the area in which we’re planted, but we will also have the opportunity to spread beauty.

Dandelions are thought to be the most familiar plants in the world. Their bright yellow appearance can catch your eye whether you look at the flower as a thing of beauty or a killer to your yard. Here is my question to all of you, what does a dandelion represent to you?

When I think of a dandelion I envision myself on the ball field walking back to the mound after an out has been recorded and relaying it to the rest of the team. As I look across the sea of green grass I can’t help but admire the springtime yellow beauties that accompany our outfielders. Sarah Wirth, a fellow senior and respected teammate of mine once said, “Dandelion seeds remind me of my class- we will be blown in the wind until we land on our feet and make something beautiful.” We each have our own unique ways in which we are able to plant ourselves and become beautiful. Some of us may be blown to college, some straight to careers, some into the armed forces. Some of us will bloom immediately, and some will take a little longer to find the right soil. Regardless of where the wind blows us, we’ll each need to carry some important lessons from our life now along with us. We’ll need courage, determination, opportunity, wisdom, and achievement.

Like the dandelion, my years of playing softball have taught me courage, determination, opportunity, wisdom, an achievement.

Courage is represented by the batters box. As a player, you need to step in the batters box and have the courage to face any pitch that comes your way and hit it. In life, courage is the ability to confront fear, pain, uncertainty, or intimidation. Stepping into the batters box shows that you have the courage that many others do not. Make sure you step up to the plate with a purpose. Do everything for a purpose. Think, “will this decision allow for me to make it a step closer to my goal”? If the answer is no then why do it? Yes, we are meant to blow in the wind, but once we are planted we need courage to make decisions that will create something beautiful instead of destroying the lawn.

Determination is represented by first base. Reaching first base requires a lot of determination because most people find it a struggle to hit the ball in the first place. Determination is the firmness of purpose or resoluteness. First base, like determination, is only the beginning of something much greater that brings about opportunity.

Opportunity is found on second base. Opportunity is a set of circumstances that makes it possible to do something greater. Reaching second base is a huge opportunity because you are now in scoring position and could potentially score on a good hit. Nobody wants to get stranded on first, so don’t stop at determination. Steal the chance or opportunity to advance to something better.

Taking full advantage of third base requires wisdom both on your own and from your trusted support system. From third base you need to score, but the other team will not allow you to score easily. Rely on your third base coach for guidance. They are your support system and will help you attain the wisdom that you need in order to score. Before our district playoff game in May of 2012 a strong supporter of mine told me, “ Good luck… Listen to coach… it will help. No eye rolling… take charge… you’re a competitor and were made for games like today. Focus on the gift you were given. Swing sweet not hard. I have a radio all set up and will listen to every play!” We won this game by one run in the bottom of the seventh inning when our coach made the decision to have the batter lay a bunt down with bases loaded and send the runner on third immediately home when the ball hit the bat. Our coach was able to supply the runner on third base with the guidance she needed in order to make the wise decision to score as soon as the bunt was laid down. The same coach also told me, “No matter how hard you try you cannot hit an 8 run homerun.” You cannot do everything alone. Teammates, coaches, and fans play a huge role in reaching home plate because they provide you with the support system you need to make wise choices. Use past experiences, knowledge, good judgment, and your support system so you don’t make a rash decision to get picked off or prevented from scoring. Your wisdom will open the way for achievement.

Home plate is your final achievement. Achievement is something done successfully, typically by effort, courage, or skill. Touching home plate is the biggest achievement as a team in the game of softball because the ultimate goal is to score as many runs as you can and reach success, which is winning the game. My most memorable softball season as a Williamsport Millionaire came my sophomore year in 2011. A Williamsport softball team had not come close to a district championship in quite some time and that year we made history. We were able to win the Central Penn league and become the number one seed going into districts. After that we went on to become district 2-4 champions by defeating Hazelton, our arch enemy, in the district semi finals and then Wallenpaupack in the finals. Looking back at our successful 2011 season, all or our games were simply little achievements that led the way into more achievements that brought about a successful 2012 season as well. One or two runs won the toughest games in both seasons. We had to use courage, determination, opportunity, wisdom and achievement in order to achieve our ultimate success. It’s the same recipe for success we need in all of the closest games of our lives.

Class of 2013, We’re about to be blown toward some of life’s greatest challenges- setting out on our own for college, careers, and families. We can’t always control where the wind blows us, but we can determine our success once we’re planted if we carry with us our courage, determination, opportunity, wisdom, and achievement. As you land in a new place, step up to the plate and have the courage to begin something that many others only dream about. Don’t stop there, use determination go to the next base. Opportunity is waiting for those of us with the greatest amount of determination. We must be wise and seek wise counsel to make the most out of our opportunities. Once we find wisdom to make smart decisions we will in return be able to reach more achievements and become more successful.

Softball has taught me to use courage, determination, opportunity, wisdom, and achievement to my advantage in every goal that I have wished to achieve thus far. It has also helped me and will continue to help me understand to not take the wind for granted and shed beauty to where ever I may be planted. Throughout our lives we can be weeds, or we can stay strong and allow our courage, determination, opportunity, wisdom, and achievement bring out our true beauty. We’re about to be tossed to the wind, but remember, dandelion seeds are meant to catch the wind in order to regrow and survive in another location. I challenge you: once you shed some beauty in one area pack up your seeds and do it again. Now, class of 2013, go, blow in the wind and strive to make your lives things of beauty.

About the Author

Alexis Bower is a Senior of the Class of 2013 at Williamsport Area Senior High School. She has been a member of her high school softball team since her freshman year and has accomplished much in those four years as a player as well as a student. All of her hard work earned her a scholarship to attend Saint Francis University in the fall of 2013 to study Occupational Therapy and play softball. She was inspired to audition to speak at her high school graduation and wrote this speech as a result. She credits her senior English teacher with helping her to become very fond of writing.  Reflecting on her high school years, Alexis realized she wanted to try and leave her own mark on her class other than being “that girl who plays softball.”  Her resulting speech clearly comes from her heart and shows the real “Alexis”–a multi-talented, mature, insightful, and wise young woman who will most certainly continue to spread her seeds of beauty wherever she lands.

I’ve discovered this totally awesome thing about dirt: it doesn’t age.  Better yet, most of it doesn’t mold, spoil, or flit away on other errands.  Once it lands someplace, it pretty much stays put without even a “pretty please.”

Dirt rocks.  Because I can totally ignore it, and it’s not the least bit offended.

Here I’ve spent the past four years of Little Friend’s life anxious about whether or not I’ve given the dirt in my house enough attention.  I didn’t want to hurt the dirt’s feelings if I played too much with the new baby.  I didn’t want to miss out on any new things the dirt might be doing while I was preoccupied with dirty diapers and teething drool and tickly tummies.   I didn’t, under any circumstances, want to give my poor dirt an inferiority complex.

So I felt guilty all the time.  If I was playing with the baby, I wasn’t cleaning up the dirt.  If I was cleaning up the dirt, I wasn’t playing with the baby.  I just couldn’t find the perfect balance of happy for all of us: me, the baby, the dirt.

And then something unexpectedly amazing happened:  The baby changed into a kid.  And the dirt stayed…dirt.

Yeah.  Dirt pretty much rocks.

The dirt in my house looks just like it looked yesterday.  And four years ago.  In fact, when I’ve put forth effort and whisked it away, it always comes right back home like faithful old Lassie.  It hasn’t learned any new words, given me hugs lately, or brought me gifts of dandelion flowers.  It’s just biding its good old time waiting–stolidly, messily waiting–for me to turn my attention back to it.

I plan on giving my dirt attention in, oh, five more years.

That whole “cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow / for babies grow up, we’ve learned to our sorrow” thing?  I feel a thrill of freedom when I declare that my cleaning and scrubbing will officially wait for many, many tomorrows.

For now, I’ll clean house enough to be livable.  To be hospitable.  But as soon as I hit the bare minimum of happy and welcoming in my house, the rest of that dirt can just snuggle in and make itself cozy for the long haul.   I’ll reaquaint myself with it some day when the echoes of little feet running to catch the school bus fade from my front porch.

Maybe then, and only then, will I finally get to the small handprint smudges on doors.  Then again, I know something about dirt–it will stay around for awhile.  And I know a thing or two about those little hands–they won’t.  So maybe even later, the dirty handprints will be the first thing to welcome you at my front door.

A snowdrop wilts behind grandma’s ear.  A bowl of maple tree flower buds is offered up on the altar of my kitchen counter.  A star gazer lily slowly loses its exuberance for life after the exhaustive thrill of Easter.  In these small ways, I note Spring’s arrival.  Some winters I get so used to the freeze and the sweaters and the cocoon of inactivity and hearty stews that I wrap around myself to hibernate through the worst of the barren season, that Spring sneaks up and surprises me.

I have two girls here who do not yet know the damage a season can wreak on a life.  The way the month on the calendar and the weather of the skies and the tragedy of a day can all stitch together into a scar you can cover up but never completely erase.  I have two girls here who do not yet know what it is to dread the change of a season.  I have two girls here who can still embrace change with the exuberant thrill of a star gazer lily.  Like the lily, their excitement for change wafts through my home, scenting my world with spice, hope, and love.

So we collect fistfuls of crocuses and mangle them into pretend wedding bouquets.  We tuck little snowdrops behind grandma’s ear.  We tackle the carpet of maple tree droppings on the front porch with a bowl as a scoop and a twinkle of wonder in our eyes.  We stand at the open front door and lick, yes lick, the storm door glass in anticipation of bursting through winter to spring.

We pack our bags and point the car south to warmer skies and flowerier springs and summer recipes of fish on the grill.  We kick winter a swift boot in the pants to send it lurking behind darker months of the calendar.  We open our mouths, hands, and hearts to embrace the  healing that comes with new life, second chances, and sunshine.

This post is shared with the brilliant community of writers at Five Minute Fridays.  Thank you, Lisa-Jo Baker, for leading the charge in pondering “Here” this week.  

7:17 am: You wake up.  Unlike most mornings when you replace the monitor static with coos and chortles and yelps, you cry.  Overtired from an Easter weekend away from home, perhaps.  Lonely for some family, perhaps.

7:18 am:  Big Friend opens your bedroom door.  Cat scoots in.  Cries stop.  Coos begin.  You wave and wave and wave to your beloved cat.

7:27 am: You nurse greedily, making up for the twelve hours of fasting.

8:09 am: You climb the steps.  Joy of joys.

8:15 am: You get the unaccustomed privilege of waking up Little Friend.  You pat her back (whap, whap, whap).  You ruffle her hair (snarl, snarl, snarl).  You urge her to wake up (Coo!  Coo!  Coo!).  When she wakes up, she extends a sleepy hand to your face.  You rub your cheek against her hand.

8:59 am: You head out to the car to chaperone Little Friend to preschool.

8:59 1/2 am: You head back inside to get the carseat that was taken in with all the luggage last night.  Bare head, no coat, a wintry April morning.

9:05 am: Little Friend delivered safely to preschool, your head swivels back and forth watching all of the other parent/kid traffic in and out of the church.  I tweak your cold, red nose as we leave.  You wave over my shoulder to the older woman walking out behind us.

9:17 am: You yawn.  You head back to your nursery for an early nap.

11:11 am: You wake up chattering.  We tackle a diaper that looks like a deviled egg may have exploded in it.

12: 09 pm: The check out clerk at the grocery store says, “Look at his big blue eyes!”  In her defense, you were wearing a blue shirt.  It had a pink pig on it.  But still.

12:09 1/2 pm: We’re chased down by a pimply grocery clerk.  He informs me you’ve lost a shoe.  We backtrack to the lost and found where the wandering shoe is unearthed from a bin.  A form is filled out, and I have to sign for it.  Yes, I sign to regain ownership of a baby shoe.

12:30 pm: You chow down on some lentil chili.  Very proud of feeding yourself some fistfuls.  You narrate in babbles while Little Friend and I make berry gummy snacks.

1:15 pm: After gnawing on the head of a Snow White toy, you break into tears when I poke my head into the playroom.  Naptime.

1:59 pm: Still awake and talking in your crib.  Then, over the monitor, I hear a long silence and some sucking noises as you and your magic blanket drift to sleep with a little help from your thumb.

4:00 pm: You wake up.  We deal with another exploded deviled egg.

4:25 pm: Back outside to spring sunshine and winter temps.  With just a few minutes to freeze nose, fingers, and toes, you watch Little Friend and her friends run around the yard, blow bubbles, and draw with sidewalk chalk.  You jump up and down on my lap, urging your little body to frolic with their big bodies.

4:59 pm: You eat a few gummy snacks.

5:47 pm: You eat a few crayons while we pick up the play room.

6:00 pm: You eat a few bites of chicken, couscous, and spinach.  You end your meal by tensing your whole body, arms and fingers spread wide, yelling at the top of your lungs.  It’s pretty clear this is “All done!” in Little One language.

6:07 pm: For whatever reason, you snuggle in my arms and give me five hugs in a row.  Just because.

6:11 pm: You attempt to hula hoop.  It goes about as expected.

7:19 pm: Done with your bath, laughing with Little Friend over nonsense and running and nakedness.

7:42 pm: You pause, mid-nursing, to sign “All done.”  You smile.  You hug.  You attempt to break free and make a run for the door.

8:01 pm: After some crying that escalates instead of settles, you are saved by Big Friend.  You quiet and nestle in his arms in the rocking chair.

8:23 pm: Asleep for the night.

Remember when your hair stood in a mohawk fringe after being raked through with a handful of hummus?

Remember how you chortle with a conquerer’s joy when you climb into your small rocking chair to stand, hands gripping the back, rattling the rocking mountain with your energy?

Remember how you turn around and negotiate your way back down from chair to floor, your 10-month-old brain performing a marvel of mature mental acrobatics to figure out the puzzle?

Remember the way you wave with a clump of fist?

Remember the way you tilt your head against my shoulder and give a sweet, winsome smile to another adult?

Remember the hugs you give me in the middle of the night when I find you standing in your sleeping bag of a blanket, gripping the bars of the crib, face pressed as close to the freedom of the doorway as the wooden slats will allow?

Remember.

Remember the way your hair tangles in a nimbus around your head, and I spend moments of gentle strokes in the morning tucking strands back into place so I can uncover your eyes?

Remember when you wake with night terrors, body rigid, mind and mouth yelling “NO!”, and you finally quiet when I tell you about a super big juicy booger lurking just inside your nose?

Remember when you taste the booger and pronounce it good?

Remember how we end our day, one-upping each other with “I love you more thans” and I walk away from your room with spaghetti strands of love following in my wake from your bed?

Remember how you told me your heart is so full of Jesus that you store your extra love in your jewelry box for safe-keeping?

Remember how you save goldfish crackers and swedish fish and jellybeans for later “so we can play pretend with them and do their voices?”

Remember how we played coffee shop, you as yourself, and me as an angel dressed up in wings of shoelaces, enjoying water, dried apricots and chocolate covered cherries together?

Remember the way you run downstairs in the morning and shout “Mama!” when you find me, breaking open my morning like it’s the first morning ever?

Remember.

I command both of you: Remember.  Press these people you are today deep into the grooves on your fingers, because someday, when you’re the beautiful, amazing, mountain-conquering women you’ll become tomorrow, I want to be able to pick up your hand, press a fingerprint to glass and study it to revisit  these beautiful, amazing mountain-conquering girls that you are today.  Remember, I beg you, in a way deeper than this snippet of a blog post, that I love the you of today–the hummus slathering, booger-eating, love-bursting yous.  I love you in a way that, if I didn’t love the promised you of tomorrow even more, I’d keep you captive in today forever, my two Rip Van Winkles of wonder.

I’m grateful to Five Minute Fridays for making me pause to remember these moments!  Join the community of writers who take five minutes each Friday morning to share one another’s prompt-inspired writing.