"Mommy, you look as pretty as a picture", he said, his three year old arms enfolding me, as I tried to leave the house.
"I don't know what I would do without you", he said, his twelve year old arms enfolding me, as I tried to decipher all the mysteries of our family's future.
It's funny, with all of the books they write, the articles in magazines, the blogs by mommies, they don't touch on the period of mourning you will endure. They talk about the best rocking chairs (none of them, by the way. The kid doesn't want to rock, they want to suck on your boobs. 24/7. They don't give a shit if it is in a rocking chair, a folding chair, or an electric chair in a lightning storm. They especially don't care if it is a Pottery Barn rocker made from organic free range goose feathers. Boob- it's pretty simple.)
They don't tell you how you will blink a handful of times, and that baby who was once content to just lay on your chest, with their cupid's bow lips barely parted in sleep, will become a big person. That baby who you were scared would scratch themselves with their razor thin little fingernails, would shred your heart to pieces with their words. They don't tell you that you will wait two years for them to finally call you Mommy, telling the behavioral therapists that they aren't, in fact, autistic, but just waiting for the right moment- and that for years afterward, you will tell them that you've changed your name. Some random Tuesday, you will decide you are no longer Mommy, you need to be Kerensa, just Kerensa for an hour. Then a few years later, you realize you would literally give all you have ever had and been to be mommy again, if even for a moment.
They don't tell you that those little girls are watching you as you get dressed to go out with their daddy, to decide what kind of woman they should be. They will try your lipstick on, your shoes- like clown shoes, like stilts, but so perfect on their tiny feet. And years later, they will watch you at a political rally, deciding what kind of woman they should be. You promised them that they could be anything, and it is suddenly on your shoulders to prove it.
They don't tell you that when you are playing music for them in the womb, alternating between Mozart and Beastie Boys, because diversity... you are molding them to be a musician, auditioning for the best schools in the country, hearts breaking when they are cast aside.
They don't tell you that when you are holding their hands, and walking them to their first day of preschool, their silly big backpacks bouncing against their little legs, that you are going to be wishing for this day again as you pay for their senior pictures- their smirking, all knowing faces replacing the gap toothed, joy- filled ones in just an instant.
They don't tell you that on the days you don't want to read another chapter of Junie B Jones, that in just a few very short years, you will wish nothing more than to read about a stinky smelly bus while their soft, warm bodies squish into yours.
You spend so many months, bellies poking out like mack trucks on an exit ramp, scouring all of the books to figure out how to do the mommy thing. You worry about the safest car seats, the amount of minutes of tummy time, screen time, and later, when they have dived onto the sports scene, their field time. Some nights, you tuck them in. Some nights, you are too tired, and you assume they won't notice if you just stay downstairs watching TV. And then, you are buying them bedding for their first day in college, realizing you will not see them sleeping again for so very long. So. Very. Long.
What they don't tell you in all of those books is that you will mourn. When they stop being pliable, content infants to become squirrely, opinionated toddlers, you will mourn the feeling of them in your arms. When they graduate from being ever wondering, always curious young kids to argumentative, less attentive big kids, you will mourn picking dandelions and answering the question why a thousand times a day. When they stop being rambunctious, slightly awkward big kids to being preteens, you will mourn the unhesitant hugs, the snuggles past bedtime. When the angsty preteen years dissolve into young adulthood, you will mourn the last vestiges of childhood, the last moments you could watch them sleeping and still see the babies they once were.
They don't tell you this when they write the baby books. They forget to mention the heartache you will feel each night, knowing that the next day will bring forth a slightly older version of the person you brought into this world. They will tell you to sleep on your side when you're pregnant, but they won't tell you that you will stop sleeping through the night when your seventeen year old falls in love and stays out past curfew. They will tell you how to soothe belly pain in a newborn, but they will forget to mention how to mend a broken heart. You will read about how to ease their separation anxiety the first time they go to daycare. But you won't find the solution to ease your own anxiety when they wave goodbye on their way into the dorms.
Stevie Nicks once sang to her parents about watching them age:
Well, I've been afraid of changin'
'Cause I've built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Even children get older
And I'm getting older, too
But the same goes for watching our children grow. If I had a Delorean on standby, I would erase those moments I lost my temper over spilled milk. I would take away the times I forgot I was a role model. I would tell my younger self how quickly eighteen years go by, as we have all realized at each high school reunion, and smell their heads more, nibble their toes more, make more jokes, schedule less, prioritize cuddling, and remember to live in the moment, because I will spend the rest of my years longing for those moments back.
He tells me he doesn't know what he would do without me, and then he walks away, his grin flashing, before he finishes his nighttime routine. I blow him a kiss, and watch him, just for a moment, become three again for a whisper of a second, and catch my breath. I will go in and watch him sleep later, along with all of his siblings. And as I doze off myself, I will remember the feel of all of them in bed with me, wrapped in a mommy sandwich. As pretty as a picture.
"I don't know what I would do without you", he said, his twelve year old arms enfolding me, as I tried to decipher all the mysteries of our family's future.
It's funny, with all of the books they write, the articles in magazines, the blogs by mommies, they don't touch on the period of mourning you will endure. They talk about the best rocking chairs (none of them, by the way. The kid doesn't want to rock, they want to suck on your boobs. 24/7. They don't give a shit if it is in a rocking chair, a folding chair, or an electric chair in a lightning storm. They especially don't care if it is a Pottery Barn rocker made from organic free range goose feathers. Boob- it's pretty simple.)
They don't tell you how you will blink a handful of times, and that baby who was once content to just lay on your chest, with their cupid's bow lips barely parted in sleep, will become a big person. That baby who you were scared would scratch themselves with their razor thin little fingernails, would shred your heart to pieces with their words. They don't tell you that you will wait two years for them to finally call you Mommy, telling the behavioral therapists that they aren't, in fact, autistic, but just waiting for the right moment- and that for years afterward, you will tell them that you've changed your name. Some random Tuesday, you will decide you are no longer Mommy, you need to be Kerensa, just Kerensa for an hour. Then a few years later, you realize you would literally give all you have ever had and been to be mommy again, if even for a moment.
They don't tell you that those little girls are watching you as you get dressed to go out with their daddy, to decide what kind of woman they should be. They will try your lipstick on, your shoes- like clown shoes, like stilts, but so perfect on their tiny feet. And years later, they will watch you at a political rally, deciding what kind of woman they should be. You promised them that they could be anything, and it is suddenly on your shoulders to prove it.
They don't tell you that when you are playing music for them in the womb, alternating between Mozart and Beastie Boys, because diversity... you are molding them to be a musician, auditioning for the best schools in the country, hearts breaking when they are cast aside.
They don't tell you that when you are holding their hands, and walking them to their first day of preschool, their silly big backpacks bouncing against their little legs, that you are going to be wishing for this day again as you pay for their senior pictures- their smirking, all knowing faces replacing the gap toothed, joy- filled ones in just an instant.
They don't tell you that on the days you don't want to read another chapter of Junie B Jones, that in just a few very short years, you will wish nothing more than to read about a stinky smelly bus while their soft, warm bodies squish into yours.
You spend so many months, bellies poking out like mack trucks on an exit ramp, scouring all of the books to figure out how to do the mommy thing. You worry about the safest car seats, the amount of minutes of tummy time, screen time, and later, when they have dived onto the sports scene, their field time. Some nights, you tuck them in. Some nights, you are too tired, and you assume they won't notice if you just stay downstairs watching TV. And then, you are buying them bedding for their first day in college, realizing you will not see them sleeping again for so very long. So. Very. Long.
What they don't tell you in all of those books is that you will mourn. When they stop being pliable, content infants to become squirrely, opinionated toddlers, you will mourn the feeling of them in your arms. When they graduate from being ever wondering, always curious young kids to argumentative, less attentive big kids, you will mourn picking dandelions and answering the question why a thousand times a day. When they stop being rambunctious, slightly awkward big kids to being preteens, you will mourn the unhesitant hugs, the snuggles past bedtime. When the angsty preteen years dissolve into young adulthood, you will mourn the last vestiges of childhood, the last moments you could watch them sleeping and still see the babies they once were.
They don't tell you this when they write the baby books. They forget to mention the heartache you will feel each night, knowing that the next day will bring forth a slightly older version of the person you brought into this world. They will tell you to sleep on your side when you're pregnant, but they won't tell you that you will stop sleeping through the night when your seventeen year old falls in love and stays out past curfew. They will tell you how to soothe belly pain in a newborn, but they will forget to mention how to mend a broken heart. You will read about how to ease their separation anxiety the first time they go to daycare. But you won't find the solution to ease your own anxiety when they wave goodbye on their way into the dorms.
Stevie Nicks once sang to her parents about watching them age:
Well, I've been afraid of changin'
'Cause I've built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Even children get older
And I'm getting older, too
But the same goes for watching our children grow. If I had a Delorean on standby, I would erase those moments I lost my temper over spilled milk. I would take away the times I forgot I was a role model. I would tell my younger self how quickly eighteen years go by, as we have all realized at each high school reunion, and smell their heads more, nibble their toes more, make more jokes, schedule less, prioritize cuddling, and remember to live in the moment, because I will spend the rest of my years longing for those moments back.
He tells me he doesn't know what he would do without me, and then he walks away, his grin flashing, before he finishes his nighttime routine. I blow him a kiss, and watch him, just for a moment, become three again for a whisper of a second, and catch my breath. I will go in and watch him sleep later, along with all of his siblings. And as I doze off myself, I will remember the feel of all of them in bed with me, wrapped in a mommy sandwich. As pretty as a picture.
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