The oldest of my four daughters turned 47 in July, which I find shocking. Surely it wasn’t that long ago that she sat on my knee with her big laugh and very little interest in learning to walk.
I know it shocks every mother when their children creep closer to the age we feel we are. I know I’m a long way from 47 on the outside, but on the inside I’m not convinced.
I’ve watched my granddaughter evolve this summer from trying to assure herself that she was safe to tentatively jumping off the dock with her lifejacket, with fists clenched, jaw set, to then galloping from one end of the dock to the edge and leaping through the air into the deep water, toes pointed and arms overhead, without benefit of any flotation device. The transformation was dramatic and exciting and … it got me thinking.
I have a long list of “important things to remember” in my book of lists. Most of them are details of my children, all the firsts, all the moments that rewarded the sleepless nights, the years of diapers, the ever-changing eating habits, the piles of shoes at the back door, the time-outs, the endless laundry, the searching for lost items. I was fortunate to be “mom” to four creative, deliciously funny and wonderfully kind daughters.
But I’ve only just realized that in the entire list of important things to remember there was no note made of the last time they called me “Mommy” and instead applied the moniker of “Mom” that seemed their rapid departure from childhood on a one-way road, no last time they crawled on to my knee with an “owie” that could be healed with a hug and a kiss, no last time their heavy head fell on my shoulder while I rocked, the creaking of the wooden rocker lulling both of us to sleep, no last time they used their creative vocabulary with words like “begot” and “bemember” which made perfect sense, or “the hot time” clearly a more sensible word than summer, no last times I found pockets filled with worms and snails, no last time they huddled under a blanket tent like puppies.
I remember when they learned to ride a bike and a pony but didn’t record when they last crawled into bed with me at night when a nightmare or growing pains disturbed their sleep, their icy toes finding warmth on my legs while I tried not to shriek.
Maybe the reason I struggle even now to turn my phone off at night or leave it charging in the living room is just in case there is a nightmare incident that requires my calm voice of assurance that no monster dwells in their closet or under their bed, despite the unlikelihood of such a call. They have all learned to solve struggles on their own, but I wish I could recall more clearly the “last time”. I would have painted it with vivid colours and careful edges so that I could recall every tiny detail.
They still want my fingers combing through their hair and up and down their bare arms, and they still enjoy their favourite desserts. They still call me when life gets heavy, not for my advice but for a safe place to unload their worries as they try to find their own way through, a call to lighten their load if only temporarily, to hoist their worry onto me so that they might rest for a bit, free of the burden.
They still think I’m capable and thankfully they don’t tell me to come down off the ladder or to stop shovelling or to slow down. They may think it, but part of them still believes I can do the hard labour stuff, though I suspect the last day of such is coming; it’s inevitable.
We march through this life as though it will never end and I suppose that is the right approach, but sometimes we can be careless with memories and cavalier with moments in front of us, certain there will be more to take note of, so no need to pause on this busy day to etch the details on our soul.
