The Wink

Even as we boarded the plane I couldn’t quite believe it was happening. We were bound for a West Coast visit, wedged tightly between a triumphant run of deadlines that brought new shades of silver to our hair and the start of school x3. My surprise to be truly on our way almost trumped my hysterical fear of flying. Almost.

The day before I’d spent the morning with the girls at the park. I stumbled about in a syrupy daze, torn between relief to have the summer nearly behind us and melancholy to have the surge of autumn and all the irreversible change it will bring upon us. I watched them hungrily.

Imprinting.

Worshipping.

Claiming.

Then it was past, a nearly imperceptible chime, an alarm. I tried to ignore it and stay frozen in their oblivion to everything but their now.

I hesitated.

Not yet.

I knew what I had to do and resented it. Time to leave the park, off to the next thing.

We arrived in Yakima safely, with everyone displaying equal amounts of need and independence. Trying to employ the breathing that is supposed to calm me in flight, I find myself confused about what exactly I am afraid of. More than 3,000 miles and we are at a playground again. Their delight just as potent.

They are deliberate.

Fearless.

Bolder.

I am happy, but it’s the kind of happy that makes me feel tired and weepy. I’ve come back to where I grew up and so much has changed. My reflection is not the same, the same is true of all that I love. The trees are more rooted and in some ways it seems as if their branches that brush me as I pass are like the Lost Boys.

You didn’t stay. They charge. You left.

And then there are my girls, clambering, screeching and frolicking beneath the limbs that protect them, shade that wasn’t there before now dances over their forms. I smile as I see them running in the faint hollows of the ruts Abbie and I made, paths we carved. They squeal in Papa’s lap, sit at Grandma’s feet for stories. The echos are sweet and I wouldn’t trade this time, but it makes the call of all that is out of my control that much louder.

First grade, Pre-K, Independent Learners. So many hours I won’t see, preparing them for all the avenues that will open to carry them wherever they choose. I can do this. They will soar.

And I will watch.

Hungrily. And I will worship.

And I will weep…

It would be so easy if emotions could be compartmentalized, if I could allow how I feel about one area of my life to not influence things in other areas. I’ve used this space for so many things, it has has been a place to chronicle parenthood, to mark the passage of time, to quest, rail and reflect. I am working hard to traverse the ever-changing landscape of working and parenting. I thought three was different when I couldn’t manage a trip solo in those first months after Finley was born. Ha!

1st grade.

Pre-school.

Pre-pre-school.

Bus.

Car.

Office.

Memberships.

Committees.

Bands.

This doesn’t even touch on health. Granted, I am still recovering, my energy slowly, so freaking slowly, inching its way up. I had set a goal of designating time for me to do yoga once we moved. The girls were going to learn to swim. Go to camp. Sean was going to work out. So many things I wanted to do, but in the same way that emotions get twisted up in actions, hopes gets tangled up in obligations.

When does my duty as a mom trump my responsibilities as a business owner?

When does wife precede mom?

Mine beat theirs?

How do I allow myself to rue certain losses as a woman while teaching my daughters to accept when things don’t go their way?

Black and white seems to be doing battle with grey and all that is left is this very unsatisfying yet indisputable watered-down and disappointing film, no color, no texture, just weight and impediment.

I have dear friends writing letters soliciting prayers for sick loved ones, friends right in town enduring the passage-before-their-eyes of loved ones in the palliative leg of illness. For every complaint I have, there is a blessing.

I am finding myself beneath a craggy tree, equal parts wondrous and hideous, ungainly limbs protruding at unexpected angles, but from their farthest points swing succulent fruit. I am torn between hoarding the fruit, its sweet juices dripping down my arms and sating the deepest corners of my soul and attacking the branches and cursing them for their refusal to grow the way I want, for eclipsing the sun from the direction I had wanted other limbs to grow.

A friend directed me to an article today

But I am glad. No summer lasts forever, and no childhood does. The sweetness of the time springs from its short supply, like the three or four raspberries I sometimes find dangling from a single plant along my driveway.

I know that this is the truth. It is all worth it, all maddening, because of how it is. I do not apologize for the young girl in me that is standing, fists clenched and nose wrinkled, glaring at the stars for not getting her way. I think that in the same way that the time is sweet for how fleeting it is, the passion is that much deeper for how hard we fight for it, how fearlessly we dive and how long we freeze the frames.

I love you all and am changed by you. Am better for having known you.

But, oh, Fin, how you have amplified, enriched and heightened every thing we do and feel.

You follow a different beat, you do.

Row row row your boat,

dropping down the street,

mammary, mammary, mammary, mammary

life is butts and dreams.

The truth is—

…there is time.

…you should say it.

…you do deserve it.

…no, it isn’t fair.

…your current approach isn’t going to change it.

…moving on moves you forward.

…they only win if you insist on defeat.

…I am glad you are here.

…you can—

(Finish it for me)