We are currents in motion right now, my love. We are at sea, and there is a storm. We are the river, but we are also the rocks. Simply remove the rocks and the river will flow smoothly. Easy, right? But, it’s turbulent now. We’re in-between and in-between isn’t here or there, is it? I remind myself: life is always this way. Only, sometimes we flow with it. Sometimes, we dance with it. Other times, it feels more mechanical and awkward. Like a toddler beginning to walk. Like when the training wheels come off, or the house lights come on. I'm here, I'm meant to be the captain, but I'm lost in this storm. Maybe I am the storm. At night, as you tuck your head just beneath my chin and I begin a storybook about where trains sleep, I remember that nothing lasts. Nothing lasts — including storms, times of transition, or these blink-and-you-miss-them early days of your almost five-year-old life. To be tucked in together like this is the greatest gift on earth. So, I vow to move the rocks. And I try not to blink.
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.
the shape of you sleeping in our dimly lit room. you shrieking, chasing the cat pretending she is a coyote. chase me, chase me you run, narrowly missing every corner, taking the stairs two at a time, leaping off your stool each chance you get. you are most contented with: your dump truck a shovel, and mud. you walk into puddles as though kissing the sea. orcas can live here, you say on a rainy day in April about the puddle in our backyard. you spend all afternoon there despite the weather, hauling coffee-coloured rainwater from one end of the yard to the other. finding worms to show me, gleefully, running at me with your muck-splattered face. your right eyelid is still purple from Easter Sunday. lately, i’ve been dressing you in jeans and a t-shirt, overwhelmed by how old you look. you know, i see it all so differently now, my love. a muddy backyard, full of puddles and limitless potential. i see the dirt under your nails, a sign of time well-spent. i see you, moving that brown water, sloshing around the back of your dump truck over tree roots and all that muck. i see you, i see you, i see you.
mama musings 