They visit me in the night: the things I failed to do today.
Put the blueberry plants in pots. (How do I manage to repeatedly overlook this all day only to remember it in the middle of the night?)
Send a reply to that email from a friend.
Speak to my son gently instead of snapping when he whined for "mama" yet again.
Bring the laundry in from the line. (I listen to the rain pouring outside; instead of being lulled to sleep, I fret about clothes that are already wet.
As I doze off briefly, I dream of a beautiful day near the water with my family. Given a moment alone, I wander off to watch the birds, only to be attacked by some large prehistoric animal that looks like a wild boar, only much bigger. It rams me in middle of my chest, right where I have pain from a pulled muscle. In the gloom of the night, I feel like maybe it is my heart breaking.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Expecting it, waiting for it: bum-bum. bum-bum. bum-bum.
Giddy, remembering the first time I heard it from your brothers. It had blown me away. A moment sealed in my memory. Today I am more prepared. And I wait for it:
As the wait lengthens, I remember words quickly spoken, last night before going to sleep.
Said too lightly, never believed.
The silence continues.
Finally the pain comes. I wish for more. Enough to fill the gaping wound. Enough to alert the world.
They tell me I will see you some day.
I hear the cliche. Does it comfort or confuse?
I silence my questions.
Dear one, I'm sorry.
For my fear.
For my ambivalence.
For my silence:
Do not think it was shame.
Do not think I did not love you enough to say your name.
The sun rises.
Your brothers ask for their morning milk and snuggles.
And I will speak your name: Baby C
Monday, October 10, 2011
Several weeks ago my son Titus had a nightmare. Imprinted in my memory is the image of a mostly-asleep, stumbling toddler SCREAMING and RUNNING full-tilt in the dark through the open doorway to his parent's room and into my arms.
Yesterday, the whole family went for a hike on what may possibly have been the most beautiful day of Fall 2011. While the rules about hand-holding are strictly enforced on our city sidewalks, there is no expectation of hand-holding while in the woods. However, I found as we walked along that both boys instinctively reached up warm chubby hands to be gripped in mine as we walked and talked and looked.
This is trust. Instinctive. Freely given, unforced.
As much as I fail as a mother, my sons trust me. They run into my arms when terrified and reach for me when happy. They give it not a thought.
"Let the little children come to me,
and do not hinder them,
for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.
I tell you the truth,
anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God
like a little child
will never enter it."
Father, please teach me to trust you like a child. To understand your love so completely that I instinctively run to You, reach for You. Amen.