late night plays

snapshot

Do you want to know how to make me cry? 

Send my grade three boy home with an assignment that asks for stories from his baby days, complete with pictures.

Because then, you see, I'd have to go into my walk-in closet, after the kids are in bed, and stand in front of the bookshelf that is bursting with photo albums. 

In the quiet—without any little hands to poke at the glossy pictures with their who, what, where, when and whys—I would look for our story on those pages. 

And even though it's still being written, there's so much worth remembering in the chapters behind us. 

When I come to a photo of my son growing inside of me, I trace the swell of my belly with the tip of my finger—to connect to the feelings I remember so well: vibrant, excited, beautiful. 

And I want to lean into the girl in the photo and say, You have no idea. There is so much more coming. Gratitude, magic, surprises, miracles. You are one million times more blessed than you are in this moment. Lucky, lucky you. 

I look at photos of my children before they were a foursome and I wonder if they knew there was another friend on the way. When I find the photos of big sisters with brand new brothers and big brothers with baby sisters, I'm certain they knew—it's on their faces: Oh there you are, what took you so long?

There are also photos of family gatherings, and in them someone we miss so much. And I am reminded that the stress of pot lucks and rolled out sleeping bags and driveways filled with cars are worth it. That as much as the pizzazz of a birthday party with friends becomes an important part of childhood, family celebrations should never lose their place. 

I see faces with less lines: the worrying kind and the ones that come from laughter. 

And I feel so much affection and pride in the ways we have triumphed and held one another through the pages of this story. 

I haven't put the albums back on the shelf yet. I feel like I need those reminders a little while longer. 

Life unfolds itself, in loud and quiet moments. Each of those captured moments are gifts, and if I could frame every single one, I would. 

For now, I walk past them at the end of the day on my way to bed. 

Lucky you, I say to them, lucky you. 

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Eleven years ago, JB knelt in front of me while I was nursing our newborn daughter, and handed me my first Mother's Day card. Before it happened, I used to imagine how I would feel—I thought it would mean so much, that I would be thrilled to be part of this club. 

But the tears that leaked from my eyes had nothing to do with happiness. The gift card to the mall, so I could buy whatever made me feel good, would never be able to do that. I was exhausted and overwhelmed and feeling like a fraud. 

I loved my baby, of course. But the reward and glowing satisfaction that epitomized Mother's Day eluded me. I didn't feel worthy of any acknowledgement. I wasn't good enough.

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

I can remember making the hand print artwork that my own mom still keeps in her bedside table. I felt so much love and was so proud that she was mine. 

Sitting in that chair, with my husband and brand new daughter watching, I was frozen with the thought that she might not feel the same. I cried when she cried. I cringed when she woke up right after I had spent an hour getting her to sleep. I reddened when I couldn't comfort her in public places.

How could she feel anything for me but shortchanged?

Of course, I couldn't have known how much better it would get; how much better I would get. 

I couldn't have imagined how it would feel to be on the receiving end of my own hand print. 

If you asked me to tell you about the gifts I've received since that first Mother's Day, I couldn't give you an answer. I don't remember a single one. But I know I've been unwrapping homemade cards and gifts for over a decade, and many times they come to me on ordinary days.

They find their way to my pillow or the top of my desk, when I'm not looking, and they tell me that my children see me. Good enough, even great. 

If you're a mama or mama-to-be, who is quietly wondering if you're worthy of a day of celebration, let me remind you that you are. If you're doing your best to be good enough, then you are great—especially in the eyes of the only ones who matter. 

I've come so far from my earliest days, and I've learned to embrace my failings, because it makes me a better parent. And instead of worrying whether my children love me enough, I show them that I love myself—and I do because of them.

************* 

Happy Mother's Day to all of you.

Today and every day. 

 xo 

 *************

{If you are struggling with feelings of sadness, and think you need help, go and find it. You are worth it.}

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My driver's license was only a few months old, when my sister and I climbed into my little red car to head to the mall. I remember my dad had just come home from the night shift and was wearing pajamas and slippers.

As he often did, he must have been watching from the front window as we pulled away.

I had a lot to learn about the proper use of rear view and side view mirrors, and so it was that I clipped the front bumper of our neighbour's parked car, while reversing from our driveway. There was a crunch and a slight lift of both cars. My sister yelped and I put the car into drive. She rolled her window down to look for damage. There didn't seem to be any, so we made the split-second decision to keep going. 

Imagine the horror, when we caught sight of our stone-faced father plowing through the food court in his slippers. 

You get back in your car right now. You drive home and you knock on our neighbour's door and you tell him what happened!

Though I have no doubt my shaky driving skills were more than enough to scare him, my driving was never the point of our later discussions about the incident.

His greater fear was raising kids who didn't do the right thing. 

And now that I'm a parent, I get it.

This past weekend, my 11-year-old daughter put my 17-year-old self to shame. 

She did the right thing.

Even though the circumstances were no fault of her own, she still made the harder choice. 

Truth? I wanted to let her off the hook.

She didn't deserve the heartache that I knew would come.

She sat and watched the team she has trained with for months and months, while they performed in a competition. Even though she couldn't participate because of an injury, she cheered and clapped and let her cheeks flush with joy on their behalf.

It was only when we were alone, that she let the tears of disappointment fall.

I wanted to let her stay home, even though I knew it contradicted the very essence of team. 

She's just a little girl, after all. 

But it turns out you don't need age to have wisdom.

And the heart that dances across stages and brings me to tears, is the very same one that kept her in that seat—a good heart.

The right heart. 

 

 

 

 

 

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REPEATER: back to the river