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.

Home

Three photo shoots in Connecticut this weekend.  My longest stretch away from the kids for work.  It feels so good to be home.

The walls are thin

Sometimes it feels there is no boundary between her skin and mine.  Overlapping like water over sand.  I felt it deep in today’s early morning wake-up, which shuffled my feet from our dark room to hers.  Head plunged into her hair, damp pillow, like I never left my own bed.  Thin difference.  Sometimes none.  Perhaps this is why parenting her can feel so hard.  I feel my own faults, fears, hopes, power, right below the surface.  Is it hers, or mine?  She breathes in as I breathe out.  Like the cord was never cut.

Dusk

And sometimes you just get lucky because the kids are fighting and can’t play alone, and you happen to have made a pot of soup for dinner at 8am.  So it was last night.  Henry needed a push, and he tugged me out into the milky light.  Sparrows ducked in and out of nests.  Wet grass stuck to feet black from running.  Fallen leaves.  I pushed small backs higher and higher, slender stacks of bones against my palms.  And breathed in fallen pears, half eaten by squirrels, fermenting the sweet air, while small legs pump, pump, pumped.  I have to remember it is nice to be there when dusk falls.

{Preview} Finding Stella

Long before Stella’s birth, her name came to her Mother, like a dagger – clear, unmistakable, true.  I remember Lisa, barely pregnant, whispering into the phone she was 100% sure it was a girl.  Didn’t need the ultrasound to know.  This baby already had her arms curled in Lisa’s auburn hair and a foot in the world’s door.  So she arrived, with a bang:  old-lady soul, tireless agenda, flashing smile, great purpose, and the unmistakable stare of a baby on a mission.  Stella seemed the type of baby you could put on the floor at three months and watch her get up and go.  Never look back.  Bowl you right over - forget about her size.  For Stella is as sweet as they come, but has that true, deep intensity.  Never ceasing to remind you every second of the day she is so much more than a baby.  I think some babies find their way into this world -- aren’t simply born.  Stella is one of them.

Happy Birthday, sweet girl.