At the end of another year

The days leading up to the New Year can be considered the days of good intentions, but it seems I squeeze in as many poor eating choices as I can manage before the calendar turns over.
At some point during the pre-holiday preparation I seem to give up. “Why fight it,” I say, as I devour my weight in miniature cream puffs (profiteroles I think they are more accurately to be referred).
I may be exaggerating but the intent is accurate.
I’m not exactly a fan of New Year’s Eve, at least not in the sense of celebration and music and crowds and doing countdowns to mark something ending and another beginning.
I prefer quiet reflection on the eve of a New Year; the taking stock of happy moments and making a list of “I’m glad I did” rather than “I wish I had.”
This year I will be with three-quarters of my brood on New Year’s Eve. We will play games and eat naughty things, and undoubtedly will laugh—laugh from our toes, from the depth of our bellies—and I will gaze at their faces and remember when they were tuck-able into bed by me; when I pulled the blankets up around their chins and tucked it tight in around them to keep the warmth in and all things scary out.
There are moments when I don’t know how to mother these grown-up versions of my children.
I ache for the days when I could keep them safe from nightmares, when I could fix the sting of a fall with a kiss, when I could brush their long hair into French braids and ponytails. When we all could climb into one bed, giggling under the blankets while we sing or watch a movie.
Those days passed much too quickly.
It’s a familiar song; the song moms sing during a season so filled with remembering.
Being a mother defined me like no other undertaking in life has, nothing comes close. I’m not as skilled a grandmother as I was a mom, if you can call it “skill.” It doesn’t come as naturally.
I stumble a bit, get bruised in the chaos that comes with being two and three years old, when my wee-er than wee ones are learning how it is they fit into this big world filled with rules and limitations.
They are born to challenge those boundaries, but need them just the same. They push against the restraints trying to figure out how everything works and I am amazed by their determined willfulness that will serve them well when they are young men.
But for now, I wince and try to find my place; my steps in this dance that is bigger than me.
Perhaps on the eve of a New Year, another grandchild waiting to join us in March, I will plan how to refurbish my patience; install the update that will see me not worry about the spilled milk, the peanut-butter hands wiping across my clean clothes, and, instead, I will just sit back and enjoy the sound of voices wanting to be heard, watch the imagination of play, and I’ll be glad that I jumped on the bus of motherhood.
Happy New Year to you and your wee ones, no matter how un-wee they have become.
wendistewart@live.ca