To you, the little one who I held and carried long before my arms ever cradled you against me; you my miracle or miracles; you who are my heart beat outside my body; the piece that I look for that I feel for, the jigsaw that I never knew until I looked squarely at the wholeness of my life picture and then squinted as if I was looking at some Pointillism, or Impressionism, or some abstract piece of art, and suddenly saw what could be, what should be, what is beauty, what is greatness, all thing different to he beholder but still recognized by any who come in contact with it, like a electric shock running through their body, or a breeze in summer. You cannot be ignored.
How is it you have grown so much that my arms cannot contain you? But this was always the plan wasn’t it? To have arms strong enough to hold you, to contain you when you were meant to be contained, and then arms long enough to let you go, but still be within reaching distance, for the moments you need some extra comfort, some support, so that form around the world, my arms will be long enough to reach you, and some how, I shall still hold you.
Then I rejoiced at your growing. “Look at my big girl,” I would say, and dutifully measure you against the wall in your bedroom, a testimony to the passing of time, to the passing of childhood. My big girl whose progress was charted by doctors in ounces, and inches, and by parents and friends by the size clothing you wore.
Now the hourglass continues, sped up to what seems like the normal pace times ten. I look at you, my child, running, running, climbing up in the tree and grinning like a hatter, the hem of your dress resting above your knees when it was at you calves a month ago. You run, you climb, you sing, you dance, all of the exuberance of childhood, the way it should be, this is the way it should be, I remind myself. But I find myself wondering, when did this happen? When did this little child replace the babe I held in my arms? When did you outgrow your favorite shoes that sparkle like the dust of pink diamonds and shards of rubies? I never clicked the heels of those shoes together to see if they would rewind time. I should have tried.
I rejoiced when you slept through the night, for I was the one who was desperate for sleep, for a moment of rest. Never did I think that I would miss those secret hours when it was just the two of us in the dark hours of not even morning. You and I, the bottle and the television remote and whatever movie was on the cable station. Together we were washed in the dim glow from the television. Now when you wake at night, and you cry out for me, I still grumble, but I walk to your room, lift you from your nightmares and hold you in my arms again. Now I can scare the boogeyman, the nightmares, the monsters in your closet. Now I am strong and powerful. I wonder if you shall still think so when you discover the truth about the boogeyman, and monsters under your bed. Then, chasing away the things that frighten you, guarding and protecting you will be a harder job. You will discover then that even SuperMoms, and Normal Moms have their kryptonites. It is I who must develop immunity to it.
It is your eyes that amaze me. Not only the blueness that seems taken from the sky itself, the hypnotic lapis lazuli, or the gray blue before a storm, but the eyes that see everything for the first time. For you the world is as it should be, full of wonder, brimming with mysteries and excitement. My eyes are old, and have seen it all before. But what is that? To teach a child to be bored, to be complacent with wonder, to squash out wonder at the crimson coated ladybugs that march up and down the apricot tree? Who would I be to tell you to simply shrug when you see the dragonflies with their glass clear wings and crystalline etchings, coated in green armor buzzing nearby, or the lightning bugs that droop lazily on a summer night, blinking their green lights as if directing traffic in a never ending thoroughfare. I would be wrong, I would be shameful. I would be accountable for destroying another’s imagination.
Your wonder humbles me. You have pulled me to watch the sunset more than once, pointing with breathless glee and saying, “Pink Sky! Pink Sky!” When I was too busy, you took me by the hand and led me to the real importance. And for that moment, we shared eyes. We have crouched to watch a line of ants hiking over the branches of a tree, sat ever so still on the edge of the pond and observed the mallard ducks that made their nest in the tall grass. When you saw her egg on the shore, you marvelled at the roundness, smoothness, and whiteness of it all. We came and visited it each day, and though it never hatched - I never told you that as it was out of the nest it would always remain an egg -the importance was in the moment. That day we learned an egg is quiet. I learned so are you.
You are strong willed, which will be important later on. My little one, how can I tell you that the world is growing more and more dark and bleak in some places? How can I tell you we live in a world of bombs, and atrocities, of injustice and genoicides? How can I even introduce those things to you, certainly not now, but how could I ever explain it to you? There should be a follow up statement, that these terrible things happened, BUT they are over now. The world has learned its lesson, and we have all grown up and become better people for it, and that it will never happen again. That is the way the statement should end. But in truth, that statement has no end. The statement is simply that world is full of injustice, and awful things that happen to good people and bad people alike, and not all the bad guys get caught. The only end statement I can add to it, is one that isn’t even necessarily true. There are awful things in the world, BUT maybe you, maybe you my jewel and shining pearl, maybe you can help change things. Even in some small way, like all those who love truth, and beauty and right, maybe you too will find some way to make a difference, even if it is as simple as planting a flower garden for the hummingbirds to feed at, and where butterflies can rest. Maybe that will be enough.
Your tenacity will be needed when it comes to following your own song, and living your own hopes and dreams. People will want to make you feel wrong for having those dreams, will want to cubbyhole you into what they think you should be. But my love, my jewel, my brightest star, do not let them. They have no right to it. They have no right to you. No matter what they tell you. Never listen to them, for once you listen to them, you are lost, and that compass needle that points true north or true desire and hope and fearlessness will be tainted with doubt and confusion. Tenacity will be needed to defend your dreams from the wolves of despair, and to buoy yourself up in the alone times, and there will be alone times. But they are not to be feared.
It is fine to be alone. It is fine to be with others. But everyone needs some of both, some more than others. Just make sure you see the sunshine, the lightning, and the starlight. And may there be someone that can be with you in the alone times, a friend, a dog, a memory.
Now, as you are now, I once was. I was once a little girl, with a temper, with a quilt, who climbed trees in my Sunday Best, who rode the horses bareback, and built forts out in the woods among the birches and thick green moss. I read my books on the roof of our house after I learned to climb that high without falling, and I threw my Barbie dolls down the chimneys. And I see what my mother must have seen, what she must have felt. Where did the little girl go who asked her mother to sit on her so she would stay small forever? Where is the imp who believed in fairies and clapped her hands ever so vehemently? Where is her pet butterfly?
For grown ups, time stops moving. Our may grow silver or white, our birthday cakes get larger to hold the candles, sometimes we grow more round. But that is the end of our growing. But we remember it all. We remember the tree climbing, the fairy forts, and catching firelfies in our hands to watch them glow green. Childhood, adolescence, and adulthood, we remember it all. But that’s about it. We remember it. You my child are on the beginning of your path, and to watch you on the path is much more startling for the hourglass does not stop, and neither do you. Each day you breathe, and each night you sleep, you grow up just a little bit more.
Until one day, you are no longer my baby, but a fully fledged adult and I will wonder where has the time gone? Where is my blueberry girl? Just like every other parent in the world has wondered.
And the saddest thing my love, my jewel, my child, is this: it never ends. It is nothing that we can stop. It is nothing that I can prevent you from experiencing. The bittersweetness of motherhood, should you go on that path, is inescapable. The two are hand in hand entwined.
As I write these things, you are napping in your crib, in your lavender room, under your quilt of flannel stripes with a hand painted OM and blessing on the front. I look at you, I listen to you. I see you in me, me in you. I see your grandmother in both of us, and my great grandmother in all of us. It is like holding up a mirror, generations and generations down the line, and we see it all in our eyes’ reflections. How far you’ve come, how far you have yet to go, and I vow to go with you as far as I can, to soak up every moment as best I can, even if I know it is futile, I will do this…. and then I pray to have the wisdom to let you grow up too. And then, maybe you will see all of this in your own daughter’s eyes
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