I might just have a couple champion bowlers on my hands.
Until recently, I avoided taking my girls out in public as much as possible. Too stressful. Too scary. Too many factors outside my control. What if they ran off in a parking lot and got run over? Or kidnapped? What if they wander off in a crowded store? What if we get in a car accident? Or, most likely, what if they have a monster meltdown on the floor of a…wait for it…nasty public bathroom? Ew. I forgot about those. Babies R’ Us, a place that’s supposed to cater to the family types quite possibly has the worst restrooms, and don’t get me started on the “nursing” rooms, that seem perpetually covered in trash and poopy diapers.
Ok, so enough about the dangers of leaving …
Her touch makes everything better.
She never taught me how to style my hair, or do my makeup, or dress in the most flattering fashions. She didn’t teach me how to blow a bubble, ride my bike, or snap my fingers. I don’t recall her ever making cupcakes for my class, or putting on an elaborate birthday party. A box cake mix and a can of frosting was about as fancy as it got. We never went for mother/daughter manis or pedis, or spa days, or other such extravagances.
But in the end, as I reflect on my own journey of motherhood I realize that all the things my mother never did for me, are things that never really mattered at all.
She always taught me how to stand up for what I believe in, be loyal …
A strong man blowing delicate bubbles for his young daughters is a beautiful thing.
Round and iridescent, delicate and weightless, bubbles blown from the lips of my strapping husband danced on the light breeze. We’d secured a particularly good bubble-blowing kit as a birthday gift for my youngest, and the results were no less than magic. The temperature outside was perfect, and the relentless Kansas wind had finally decided to take a time-out. Beauty stacked upon beauty until a permanent memory of that evening was etched in my mind. Bubbles and giggles and family and love.
Sometimes, pictures can’t capture the beauty of the moment. And sometimes they can.
But bubbles, much like memories, are fragile. If you try to contain them, they break. If you try to preserve them, they lose their value, no longer free …
Eight hours of cooking, cleaning, decorating, all to be enjoyed and devoured in two hours time. Ground beef, roast chicken, beans, cheese, mushrooms, cilantro, onion, green chile, salsa, sour cream, enchiladas gooey and melty on 20 plates. Three-layer made-from scratch banana cake, caramel dripping down the sides. Laughter. Long conversations. Little girls shrieking and chasing. When all the guests had gone home, the mess (mostly) cleaned up, baths were given, and I tucked my new two-year-old into bed. I felt the exhaustion sink deep into the bone.
She gripped her new Curious George tightly, and in a sweet, small voice said, “I had a great day mommy.” Me too, honey, me too.
Was she worth all this effort? Absolutely.
I’m pretty darn proud of this cake.
I know this little girl
She came into our world
All plump and round and sweet
What a joy to meet
Her eyes are crystal blue
They sparkle bright and true
Her auburn hair it shimmers
In the sunlight how it glimmers
A blessing we’ve been given
A daughter and a sibling
A sweet and silly baby
Growing into a young lady
Her laughter shrieks and giggles
With peek-a-boo and tickles
Her hugs and kisses dear
Are the most tender and sincere
I know this little girl
She came into our world
All plump and round and sweet
What a joy to meet
The magic of this moment couldn’t possibly be captured by camera. Still, I’m glad to have it.
I can still remember the way she looked on my chest. Wet from the womb, her eyes wild and her chin, strong and angular, jutted out at me as if in an immediate assertion of dominance. She’s always been strong. Strong minded, strong willed. So strong, in fact, that she left a large, deep bruise on my left breast after a faulty first latch, such a painful encounter was our first as mother and daughter. “Good luck feeding that barracuda,” the nurse joked. How right she was. I gave up nursing after three weeks. Cracked nipples and scorching thrush meant that each feeding session was excruciating. I’ve always felt guilty about giving up on her, and perhaps I …