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.
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.
we teach our children the way we think the world should be we show them the way we believe the world could be
we teach our children to be curious. we teach them kindness and gentleness. we tell them of their own innate goodness. we teach our children to pay attention: the call of a bird, a dog barking, the moon; we teach them patience and acceptance. we teach our children that all their feelings are welcome, it’s safe here, you are loved. we say to them, this is a beautiful place, isn’t it? look at the sun my love, did you know when it rises here it sets in Thailand? listen to the sound of the snow crunching under your feet squish the mud with your fingers trace your name in the sand listen. did you hear that? it’s the sound of the wind a train a helicopter. we let time stand still and we exist in that moment only, with them. we play, we laugh, we sing so much. (we never knew we would sing so much.) we teach them to be themselves. we tell them they can be whatever they want to be in this world. we tell them to listen to their hearts their bodies their inner wisdom. we don’t want to lay it on too thick, but we tell them to listen to their true selves. shhhhh… listen.
we believe in magic, with them. with them, we don’t hold back, we are unconcerned, we are not self-conscious. (the singing for example, we really didn’t know there would be so much singing.)
we are reminded daily, almost hourly really, of how incredible and abundant and miraculous life here really is. that they are that. that life and our constant little reminder. we try to convey this to them on a long drive home one afternoon during the why why why phase every three-year-old goes through. but, well, just end up singing a song about the sun, the moon and the stars. shhhh… can i tell you a secret? you are that, my love.
mama musings 