Why the reruns? Good question. I’m glad you asked.
You’re not an agent, are you? Because if you are…
I’ve “finished” my mixed-media book several times in the last month (takes a long time when the wee ones help only in forcing you to start over again and again) and have decided to use my blog time this week to clean up all ends and get this BITCH done.
In the meantime, if you stick around, I’ll be reposting some of my favorite stuff from the last year. Like the below post, which was written on my 31st birthday, a few weeks after I miscarried THREE.
If you don’t, WHATEV. I hear ya. And I’ll see you back on Monday.
* * *
Yesterday was my birthday.
Rah rah. 31.
Birthdays inevitably bring on reflection. How was the last year? Am I who I wanted to be? Is this the person I wanted to face one year later? Did I handle things the way I should have? Have I made a difference here at home, or anywhere…
I’m very grateful that even during my most introspective reflecting, I’ve never questioned whether or not I made the right decision to have kids. Sure I doubted it before I had them, but something changed when it went from “thinking about” to “being with” them.
In the corners of my mind I question whether or not I’ve spent enough time writing or creating, but in the quiet of my heart, it’s always about them. And that makes me feel good. It also makes me question whether or not I’ve been patient enough. Have I loved my kids enough? Can they actually feel how much I love them?
And somehow, those questions are always answered without needing to actually ask them.
ONE was so excited about my birthday that you’d think it was the night before her own. She told me five times that I was the mommy she always wanted. She sang Happy Birthday every time I walked into the room. She jumped up and down all day, begging and pleading to tell me about the surprise she and Daddy had planned for me. And when I wouldn’t let her, she turned her attention to plotting the way she’d eat her dinner. That way she could help me eat my cake after finishing her own.
TWO wasn’t as vocal, but she hugged me on her own, without any prompting or encouragement for the very first time. Like she knew how much I needed it. I was so excited that I flipped her a few times. This was apparently the response she was looking for, because she continued to hug me throughout the day.
Towards the end of the afternoon ONE and I sat at the counter together. I was writing, and she was “writing” with crayons in her journal. We were listening to Swan Lake and just quietly being together.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see her watching me.
“What’s up, Pea?”
“I just love you, Mama. That’s all.”
“I love you too, Pea.”
“No, I reeeealllly love you, Mama. All the way to the moon. Isn’t that a lot of love?”
“Wow, it sure is. You make me a very lucky lady.”
“AND, you’re the most beautiful-est Mommy in the world.”
I laughed, but part of me hoped she’d always think that.
“And you know what else, Mama?”
“What’s that, Pea?”
“I made a picture of you.”
“You did?” I was expecting her to show me an array of colored scribbles, or a pink and purple amoeba.
She handed me her journal.
I cried. Not enough to make a scene, or anything. But I cried because even during this awful, awful month, I must have smiled enough to make her feel safe.
And maybe, regardless of how empty I felt, I was able to be enough of a mom that when she thought of me, I was smiling.
And to me, that means that 30 was a VERY good year. And if this could somehow be a very good year, then 31 is gonna rock.