remind me later how you looked as you slept the night before you turned five. your face still resembling the baby you were a few short years ago. remind me how you fought to keep the TV on longer, though it was way past your bedtime already. remind me how it felt when you ran up the driveway earlier that day to greet me after i'd been out buying ingredients for your birthday cake; you running full speed, grinning and throwing yourself into my outstretched arms. remind me how you asked, even though i'll be five soon Mom, you can still pick me up, right? how it stung my eyes as i smiled and replied, of course. remind me how your almost five-year-old body looked this summer, diving down to the deep end of our pool, how exhilarating it was watching you learn how to swim. remind me how you carried your stuffed cub the mountain lion with you everywhere. how excited you'd get about the things you loved. remind me, remind me, remind me. as i crawl into bed with you, my nearly five-year-old, i will press these moments into my mind as i would flowers between the pages of a thick book. to find later, scattered gingerly when the book is re-opened, yet kept so beautifully despite the passage of time. a wonderful discovery of a moment, a burst of life both fragile and true, and the loveliest, oh so sweetest reminder of these wildflower summer days. summer days, and you my wildflower.
this summer you can swim like a fish i watch you dive to depths twice your size recall that feeling, that freedom that thrill i watch you ride your bicycle more of a race than a ride, really pedaling as fast as your little legs can take you tearing through the trails behind our house i think about the space between us now a space where there was none for five years, my little shadow at my heels even as i make coffee i just want to be where you are, mom they say having a child is like having your heart walk around outside your body more like my stomach or my guts out there my stomach churning with excitement as my feet pump the pedals of my bike my guts tightening and contracting as i slam on the brakes with all my might my lungs down there in the deep end trying to hold my breath and i wonder if this is the beginning yes, it must be the beginning of the space between us as you – my heart, my lungs, my stomach and my guts – begin to move in all directions all these new ways of moving your body my body our body your body all the while a quiet whisper slow down, caught in my throat there used to be no space between us i mean, zero space between us i just want to be where you are, mom i’m not ready for my heart to walk around in this world without me is a mother ever ready? ever ready to live without her little heartbeat?
tiny socks are everywhere have taken over this house every place i turn underneath every pillow a plate the couch are the tiniest eensy-weensy tiny socks each time i find them i am surprised by their size delighted by their appearance and curious that perhaps this house had never truly been complete without them being here.
wishes into flesh love into bone dreams into life whispers into song the purest thoughts we have our unadulterated joy our raw hope our entire hearts how can a mother not believe in magic? when she has held it in her womb, pressed it to her breast, loved it into existence? our babies are here to remind us what we already know this universe is miraculous and magical an expanding and all encompassing love is inside and outside each and every one of us it's what our babies are comprised of it's what we are comprised of but you knew that already, mama.
i. picking you up from playschool the immense joy in each step present moment exhilaration it is so clear i was placed on this earth to receive you.
ii. there are so many incredible moments beautiful nanoseconds with you that swell my heart sting my eyes catch my breath in my throat. this one, today — it's for you Mommy, i made you a rainbow.
when you look up at the night sky full of stars, you don't need to be convinced. it's right there in plain sight. but wait, here's something — try explaining stars to a child. explain to them that they are made up of the same materials as one. tell them about the moon, it's phases. chat with them about seasons, sunsets and strawberries. go into great detail about how these little red berries just grow and when they're ripe you simply pluck their sweetness from a bush then pop it into your mouth. tell them about pineapples. have you ever seen a baby pineapple? it's perfection. and coconuts? list all the ways that coconuts are lessons in abundance. afterwards, try to describe how trees talk to each other, through an underground system we can't even see. oh, and don't forget to tell them how those same trees also help us to breathe. go ahead. explain all this to a child. see if you can say you don't believe in magic.
today i buzzed around all day but felt that nothing got done. meals were made, toys were taken out and put away again. groceries were bought: pineapple, tomatoes, cucumber. things were ticked off to-do lists. preparations for Mimi's upcoming visit. hardware store, swim, negotiations about TV. concessions made. meals eaten, jackfruit cut, smoothie date at the local cafe. i thought to myself, i should be writing more. but i also thought hey, at least i'm writing.
and when i wrote out the whole day, even in point form and looked at it from up here, bird's eye view, as they say —
i thought of the herons we see daily. the vultures that fly overhead that you so often call eagles, and i don't correct you. because eagles are nobler, somehow.
i thought of the big picture.
life is like that, you know.
it's a bunch of tiny dots, that connect to make a reality that is so much more than we tend to give it credit for. its astonishing, really, that we don't spend most of our time in complete awe of the out-of-this-world beauty that is our every day moment-to-moment reality.
the fact that you even exist. that we are here, at all. that herons are taking flight and vultures are soaring overhead, pretending to be eagles. that wings can spread and wind can lift, that the moon controls the tides and the sun rises each morning to greet us.
finally, the sound of the waves crashing outside our little house was enough to inspire me begin this poem again.
today i buzzed around all day but felt that nothing got done. however, each moment was truly full of wonder and magic. and i was lucky enough to be able to spend a whole day loving my son. and we passed the time marveling at the world together.
the things i love are so small. my son's tiny hand in mine. the top of his head tucked under my chin. the coffee someone makes me. a guitar being strummed. wind rustling the trees. mangoes. stretching my body. my Dad's laugh. my Mom's Hello Honey, as she answers my call. sunlight dancing on water. being barefoot. a smile exchanged with a stranger. the things i love are so big. the mountains of northern Thailand. a whole country that both made and undid me. the lakes of Ontario. huge, holy trees. the sky at dawn. new beginnings. possibility on the horizon. this chaotic, beautiful world. Motherhood. hope. love. life.
your presence keeps inserting itself into my memories distant pasts that preceded you a trip to Nicaragua i vaguely recall you running on the beach of San Juan del Sur bay sand dancing out from under your feet my first trip to Thailand swimming in the sea off Koh Phangan weren't you there with me?
surely as an unfertilized egg some cells that would later become you a space in my uterus that would grow your bones and eyelashes.
did i ever exist without you? i recall you on motorbike trips through rice field-patched mountainsides i feel you there with me as i recollect lazy afternoons at Bellwood's Park.
were you the strength i found that helped me walk away?
were you the truth i found that helped bring me back?
all along you were there my tiny but mighty heartbeat.
mama musings 