The Ache of It

In hindsight, I think I subconsciously imagined having a child to mean that you would, essentially, have a child forever. That is, an infant, a toddler -- perhaps a child as old as five -- would live in my house with me always.

He or she most definitely would not continue to age alongside me beyond kindergarten, only to one day reach adulthood and forge a life apart from mine.

He or she would never be too big or too proud to cuddle against me before drifting off to sleep amidst sweet whispers of, "I love you, Mommy."

Ridiculous as it may sound, it truly only just recently occurred to me that my children won't be children for very long. Cece is already a kindergartener; Nico's hands & feet no longer have that silky, thin-skinned look of infancy. As much as I implore Cece to stop, she and her little brother keep on growing, day after day.

Normally when putting the kids to bed each night, I feel a little anxious for them to drift off to sleep so I can go back downstairs, get a few dishes washed, have a little quiet time to myself before I head back upstairs to bed.

But tonight, as Cece and I lay side-by-side in her princess bed, I hesitated to leave her.

I was consumed with the ever-looming future, as though I could peer through the curtain of time to the day when an all-grown-up Cece leaves our house, when I will be both comforted and heartbroken by the memory of this night, her arm thrown over me, mine over her, our cheeks nuzzling, breath falling into unison.

And I, this perfectly imperfect mother, was completely overwhelmed by the sweet ache of it.

A Memorable Morning

On the way to Cece's school this morning, Cece, Nico and I were driving along, enjoying the beautiful late-summer morning, listening to the radio and pointing out each and every single bus we passed. Nico, for those who don't know, is completely infatuated with all large things on wheels -- particularly buses.

"Look, Nico! A school bus!" Cece would yell.

"Daaaaat!" Nico would shout, as he'd point at and wave to the bus.

About half-way into our 10-minute drive, Annie Lennox came on the radio, singing "Pavement Cracks." The song begins quietly, gradually building in volume and pace up to the chorus. All three of us were bobbing our heads, while I sang and Cece tried her best to listen in and learn some of the lyrics.

By the time Annie got to the second chorus, all three of us could barely be contained by our seatbelts. Neighboring drivers must've thought we were on our way to the new Wiggles try-outs. :)

Cece said, "You know what, Mom? A song can make my bad mood turn into a really happy mood."

And ain't that the truth?

The three of us were buoyed by the hope in Annie's voice coming through the speakers. We were, dare I say, radiant as Wilbur the pig with joy, driving down the road to Cece's second day of kindergarten.

I won't ever hear that song again and not immediately remember this morning, when my children and I were lifted and united in the simple joy of song, the sun shining down on us, the world spread before us.

I wish you well.