14 years remembered well

I remember being 16, with a swollen belly full of baby.
I remember things that were said and the things that were not and
I remember the things that I thought about you.
I remember uncertainty and reservations and doubts and then,
I remember a leap of faith.

I remember a first breath and tears from you and from me and
I remember diapers and sleep deprivation and high school exams and
I remember you had the bluest eyes.
I remember tiny fingers and tiny toes that grew too fast.
I remember when you learned to walk and when you cut your first teeth and
I remember your first bad owie and
I remember I cried along with you.

I remember Kindergarten and how you loved recess and
I remember that you hated math, even from the start.
I remember Middle School and you were growing up and
I remembered that somewhere along the way I had grown up, too.

I remember that a long time ago, you were a part of me and now
I must remember that you are becoming a man and even if
you remember being my baby,
I must remember that you are no longer mine, you are now your own, but
I will always remember that it was you who made me a mother.

**********************************************************

Happy Birthday to my oldest. 

I love you bigger than the moon

Time is of the essence

I do not run from aging.
I have waited rather impatiently for the feeling that I have officially entered into adulthood.
I long to know instantly which choices will catapult me forward in the direction of all-knowing and leave me with a sense of Universal understanding and rightness.
Yet, when I look into the mirror and see a face that is over 30, and a head with several strands of silver hidden by a careful part of the hair, I am surprised.

I am starting to get the drift that there is no magic awakening that occurs simply with age.
When will I get there, then, I wonder? If I get there at all.

Most days I feel like the decisions I make in raising my family are smart, and right, and good.
Some days I think my head is going to come exploding apart and the children will do no more than to stomp what is left of me into the meticulously cleaned laminate floor beneath their feet.
It is up to me to put my head back together and clean up the messes of mothering, and of life's many disasters and also, most importantly, life's celebrations.

When my mother was my age she seemed to have it all figured out, but I know she would say that is not true.  Maybe that is the trick- making it look like you know what you're doing when in all honesty you are scrambling through, doing the best you know how to do.
If that is the case, I have arrived.
I am here.

Flashback Friday: 1,2,3 Happy Birthday to my Baby

Shrinky, age 5 months

I wrote this little poem for all of my children, but just for today I dedicate it to my daughter.
Happy 3rd birthday, my sweet girl.

Before you

There were nights to sleep in uninterrupted bliss
And no boogey-men to dispel of
No wet sheets to change hurriedly
or emergency midnight baths
I had no crayon drawings for my fridge
Or paper bag puppets
No sand in my shoes
Or snot on my sleeve
I had friends and fun
and you were not there
to ask me questions and interrupt
private conversations with silly dances
and made up jokes that nobody understood
there was no “Mama, can I?”
there was no mama at all
before you.

My goofy, smart, sweet, crazy, beautiful, amazing girl, age 3