When Seven sounds like thunder

It never fails.  When things get hard, I wonder why I was given you.  You, with your black eyes, and intense heart.  You, with your endless legs and eternal fight.  You, a bear in lamb’s gloves.  Whomever thought I was brave enough, fast enough of a mother to follow your quick wings, and care for your wild heart, didn’t know how much I would struggle.  Quickly I have learned -------

There is no easy parenting.

I often wonder how I can mother all your strength and pounding beauty.  I wake up drenched; grappling for that endless ribbon from your eyes to my heart.  I strain to follow.  And trust.  Trust in the deep contradiction that you come from me, yet aren’t mine.  Trust that the world chose me to be your mother.  Trust that in the sometimes-messy-stew of parenting fierce and independent you, there are moments of deep peace.  Quiet.  Connection.  Even shine.  And trust that slowly, I am learning to be thankful for your thunder, your growl, your glow.  For you teach me things no one else in this world ever could. 

You, my daughter.  My wild daughter of seven.

{Preview} Love prefers unmade beds

Love prefers unmade beds.  It creeps in when mealtime’s on the floor, and becomes louder when dogs and strings and Tupperware lids become toys.  Love’s song is full when feet are bare, and there is much banging on light-filled windows.  Love was parading about on this day, shaking the house with its clamor, spilling a wild, wide silken river onto the floor.  As my children grow, these are the moments I want to burn into my brain and ride into forever –- flashes of milked skin, a careless swoop of ponytail, exhaustion, dishtowels, crumbs on the floor, sun streaming in the windows – and babies - swarming at my feet.