The Road to Here
It's the day after Mother's Day and inquiring minds are asking over the phone and in the grocery store parking lot, "How was your Mother's Day?"
"Eh," I say. "How was yours?"
"Pretty good," I hear
"It had its shining moments," she says.
"It was hot and the air conditioner broke and the kids were all crying. But we saw my mom!"
Yikes. That's it? That's all? The one day a year devoted to moms everywhere? The truth is Mother's Day is a set up. It's a set up for Mom's high expectations of finally being appreciated and a set up for her children who make special gifts at school...and then forget to give them, to remember to say it when they first open their eyes...but forget to mention it by the time they reach the bottom of the stairs and their needs start to consume their little bodies. Because, after all, kids need hard boiled eggs with the yolk sliced out and they need that shirt you promised to wash last night before sleep overcame your best efforts, and they need you to break up their fights and make it fair again. They need you. And not even Mother's Day can interrupt that.
Sunday was long.
Saturday was great. On Saturday, we woke with no expectations. We took our time getting ready. We wandered through the Downtown Art Walk and found E and A's mixed media pieces and browsed the library and ate pizza on a blanket in the park. When we were stuffed full, we played silly games and read stories until we were warm and tired. We went home. We played and raked leaves and planted seeds. We fell into bed tired and content.
At the park, I watched long legs and wild arms chasing each other up and down the green. I listened to small voices weaving in and out of each other. I danced across the grass to catch their bodies up in my arms. I went barefoot. I thought, the road to right here is the best road there is.
E is finishing her last weeks of second grade. Her head reaches the middle of my torso now and her hair is wild and long. She writes stories and poems, reads two books in a day, and climbs trees like a monkey. We find her sketches and tales etched on scrap paper, brochures, and the backs of receipts. She plays piano in the evenings, and we hear her pounding out pieces with precision and intensity. Gentle, soft, slow are not words in her repertoire. She hears all, sees all, and very recently, knows all. We live with stomping feet and arms crossed tight and sharp words from time to time. She is growing up. She'd like to stake her own claim. She is little. She'd like to be free of responsibility. Now begins the challenge of showing her that freedom requires responsibility.
A is finishing Kindergarten. She is just a head shorter than her older sister. All arms and legs and determination. A has a heart for God's creatures. When we pray thanksgiving, she thanks Him for the animals, requests his help in caring for them. She loves art class and reading and her teacher. She reads out loud to us every night after dinner, leading us in a reflection or a prayer. She reads to us at bed time. Last night she read the word "recognized" from a true story of a polar bear rescue. Sometimes I hardly recognize my baby turned girl. A plays the guitar soft and slow each night. She's learning notes and soon chords. She's volunteered to play "Ode to Joy" for her music class. She's brave that way. She loves one-on-one time with her older sister, and she loves one-on-one time with her little brother. Playing with both at the same time is sometimes fun and always loud.
K is finishing his second year of preschool. He's a little pip of a thing and faster than a speeding bullet. He loves school, his teachers, his friends, and mischief. He loves hugs. We get recognized all over town because he always has a grin and a greeting for everyone he meets. "So happy all the time," I hear. "Yes, as long as we're out and he's getting his way," I smile. He has a quick wit and a love of silliness. Last week at school he took off his shoes when he shouldn't have. His teacher insisted he put them back on. Instead of cooperating, he stretched his little self out across the floor and proceeded to snore. He's a master at evading a task with attempts to be cute. K's speech continues to improve by leaps and bounds along with his overall stability and strength. We're grateful for his wonderful therapists in and out of school, for his sisters who engage him in vigorous play, and for his horse friend Nate who he rides once a week. Just this morning, I helped him use the potty at the grocery store, watched him hoist groceries into the cart, understood that he wanted "Clifford toofbwushes," and watched him write his name all by himself in school.
So if Mother's Day wasn't the best day I've ever had, the days of motherhood are full of all the goodness that children bring and all the challenges, too. "Live in the moment — and you get a momentous life," writes Ann Voskamp on her blog A Holy Experience. This is true not because every moment is ground breaking or fresh or good. Some moments are dull and tired and bad. It's true because living in the moment gives me barefoot afternoons in the town park with three littles flying to and fro, taking my hands and telling me, "Run, Mommy. Run. Come on! Come see!" I see. I know. The road to right here is the best road there is.
"Eh," I say. "How was yours?"
"Pretty good," I hear
"It had its shining moments," she says.
"It was hot and the air conditioner broke and the kids were all crying. But we saw my mom!"
Yikes. That's it? That's all? The one day a year devoted to moms everywhere? The truth is Mother's Day is a set up. It's a set up for Mom's high expectations of finally being appreciated and a set up for her children who make special gifts at school...and then forget to give them, to remember to say it when they first open their eyes...but forget to mention it by the time they reach the bottom of the stairs and their needs start to consume their little bodies. Because, after all, kids need hard boiled eggs with the yolk sliced out and they need that shirt you promised to wash last night before sleep overcame your best efforts, and they need you to break up their fights and make it fair again. They need you. And not even Mother's Day can interrupt that.
Sunday was long.
Saturday was great. On Saturday, we woke with no expectations. We took our time getting ready. We wandered through the Downtown Art Walk and found E and A's mixed media pieces and browsed the library and ate pizza on a blanket in the park. When we were stuffed full, we played silly games and read stories until we were warm and tired. We went home. We played and raked leaves and planted seeds. We fell into bed tired and content.
At the park, I watched long legs and wild arms chasing each other up and down the green. I listened to small voices weaving in and out of each other. I danced across the grass to catch their bodies up in my arms. I went barefoot. I thought, the road to right here is the best road there is.
E is finishing her last weeks of second grade. Her head reaches the middle of my torso now and her hair is wild and long. She writes stories and poems, reads two books in a day, and climbs trees like a monkey. We find her sketches and tales etched on scrap paper, brochures, and the backs of receipts. She plays piano in the evenings, and we hear her pounding out pieces with precision and intensity. Gentle, soft, slow are not words in her repertoire. She hears all, sees all, and very recently, knows all. We live with stomping feet and arms crossed tight and sharp words from time to time. She is growing up. She'd like to stake her own claim. She is little. She'd like to be free of responsibility. Now begins the challenge of showing her that freedom requires responsibility.
A is finishing Kindergarten. She is just a head shorter than her older sister. All arms and legs and determination. A has a heart for God's creatures. When we pray thanksgiving, she thanks Him for the animals, requests his help in caring for them. She loves art class and reading and her teacher. She reads out loud to us every night after dinner, leading us in a reflection or a prayer. She reads to us at bed time. Last night she read the word "recognized" from a true story of a polar bear rescue. Sometimes I hardly recognize my baby turned girl. A plays the guitar soft and slow each night. She's learning notes and soon chords. She's volunteered to play "Ode to Joy" for her music class. She's brave that way. She loves one-on-one time with her older sister, and she loves one-on-one time with her little brother. Playing with both at the same time is sometimes fun and always loud.
K is finishing his second year of preschool. He's a little pip of a thing and faster than a speeding bullet. He loves school, his teachers, his friends, and mischief. He loves hugs. We get recognized all over town because he always has a grin and a greeting for everyone he meets. "So happy all the time," I hear. "Yes, as long as we're out and he's getting his way," I smile. He has a quick wit and a love of silliness. Last week at school he took off his shoes when he shouldn't have. His teacher insisted he put them back on. Instead of cooperating, he stretched his little self out across the floor and proceeded to snore. He's a master at evading a task with attempts to be cute. K's speech continues to improve by leaps and bounds along with his overall stability and strength. We're grateful for his wonderful therapists in and out of school, for his sisters who engage him in vigorous play, and for his horse friend Nate who he rides once a week. Just this morning, I helped him use the potty at the grocery store, watched him hoist groceries into the cart, understood that he wanted "Clifford toofbwushes," and watched him write his name all by himself in school.
So if Mother's Day wasn't the best day I've ever had, the days of motherhood are full of all the goodness that children bring and all the challenges, too. "Live in the moment — and you get a momentous life," writes Ann Voskamp on her blog A Holy Experience. This is true not because every moment is ground breaking or fresh or good. Some moments are dull and tired and bad. It's true because living in the moment gives me barefoot afternoons in the town park with three littles flying to and fro, taking my hands and telling me, "Run, Mommy. Run. Come on! Come see!" I see. I know. The road to right here is the best road there is.
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