An eerie end of days sort of feeling has crept over me, infusing everything I do with some internal knowledge that everything I do is the last time I do it. Which is actually true all the time, I just don’t always notice. Later this month will be the littlest monkeys fifth birthday. Five is very big. Big enough to do so many things. Almost every day I want to go for a long quiet walk in some woods and on mother’s day I sort of did. Although the day was, for me, filled with a desperate clinging to the past and yet a vast and unimaginable hunger for what’s to come.
What new story will we write together? I have been a mother for ten and half years now. I stumble daily. I laugh, we laugh, I say mean things some times. I’m never very good at routine. Sometimes I bring snacks and water and other times dinner is very very late.
I yell at them to be quiet in the car. I purposely choose very short books at bedtime so that I can watch a show. I make eggs for breakfast almost every single morning. I get lost and make wrong turns so often that my kids think it’s normal to do so. I don’t know what mistakes I will make in the future. Who can say? I thought to myself, I have had two four year-old's before, I know what this is like. But I didn't. I didn't know what it was like to have this particular four year old at all. Nor do I have any idea what it’s like to have an 11 year-old.
|my mother's day flowers|
That’s just not how it happened. Instead I got three gorgeous, HUMONGOUS, amazing children. Who I didn't know I wanted. Who wouldn't be who they were or have what they have to give, if it weren't for my mistakes. At least that’s what I tell myself, since I have no intention of not making any more mistakes. I just think the cuddlefests, and ice cream, the surprises and all the YES makes up for the crap.
“Chant the beauty of the good” writes Emerson. And that’s what I intend to do, in this next chapter. The 5 to 10, 7 to 12, 10 to 15 and 32 to 37 chapter.