twoandneveranymore

I'm spun black, caught in my own mad web.  For watching my own beautiful children grow stuffs my heart in a jar.

Everyday, my eyes drink in their small miracles.  Skin stretching over bones.  Minds flying.  Fingers carving letters on paper.  My lids fluttering from the magic.  Until they sleep -- and I push my face greedily into their hair.   Breathe deeply, searching for babyness -- round faces, rolled thighs, black, shining eyes.  Reality slaps without mercy as I stand in line at the grocery store, a baby-in-bucket-mother next-in-line.  A pregnant-bellied-woman washing her hands next to me at the airport.   White heat-rising, my web pulls tight.  I see my selfish self clearly.

My twoandneveranymore children.  A phrase someone I adore used the day she realized her two, were indeed her last.   For some it's oneandneveranymore.  Others four.  And some, none.  No matter the number, the day appears.  And defines - carving lines thick and blue as veins.  And brings with it either a wave of relief, or wall of grief.  And the wonder that our days are indeed racing past us like rain.  Mytwoandneveranymore.  I swallow the words like stones.  Mytwoandneveranymore.  Mytwoandneveranymore.  My heart pushes against its own walls, sharp and thin.

I push the dull ache down to my toes, only to feel it rise bit-by-bit all day, then settle in my heart as I lie my head down at night.  The realness of their growth, a blue flame, singeing my skin.  I'm ablaze from the sheer heat of needing to be a young mom again.  Of wanting their babyness back.

Twoandneveranymore.

I mend with the truth.  Long zagging stitches.  Filling the holes from the inside out - pushing-into, stitching-up, guarding the raw spaces.  And let their smallness slip away.  I ink the smell, the feel, the memory of baby deep inside - a ball of white light hidden under my skin.  It glows.  Its warmth, a reminder to be grateful.  

My twoandneveranymore.  I am getting there.  One day at a time.

One layer at a time

We as mothers, are weaving a dense nest.  Some layers are liquid -- shimmering, stretching, light.  And some are ragged - thin as wings.  But each day, no matter the beauty of the layer, the nest grows.  Whether we want it to or not.  Layers stream from our arms and legs, wild and long.  A whirling, mad circle.  Often I want to go back and pull the ugly pieces from yesterday.  Smoke them into sky.  But they are stuck, burrowed in with soft, oozing glue.  In their nest, the place they'll lie their heads for the rest of their lives.  A mottled place of memories.  Mistakes.  Deep love.  Ultimate safety.  Softness.  Regrets.

This nest, their childhood.

When they look back, they will find us there.  In the center.  Quiet.  Never perfect but trying.  Like a wren, we mothers are eternally busy, taking the memories, the moments, and tuck, tuck, tucking them into place.  Rearranging.  And stringing them together with songs.  Some days, layers of pure gold.  Others, nothing but scraps.  But all the while -- there we were -- singing into the light.  And building their nest.  A beautiful childhood nest.  On layer at a time.