I suppose it might get old, this writing out the phonetic spelling of little kid words, or more specifically the reading of it. I’ve gone back through my archives and read some of my old posts. There are many I’d rather have gone, the style, the content or the absence of editing all making me blush. I don’t strike them from the record, knowing that in the same way that there will be memories I’d rather didn’t exist, so too will there be less than perfect blog entries.
My legacy for the girls, part memories we created together and part my retelling of moments they may not recall, is something I hope will be as rich as it is authentic. There have been starts and stops, pictures and blanks, but there is a thread. A gossamer line of our life together that will carry on after our paths spider and carry us to different stages.
[Enter a bit of maudlin here] I hope when they read entries like this, they’ll no how from the moment I began typing the sentence about our paths, rather than “our path,” I felt the hot prick of tears stinging my eyes and an intense ache rose in my throat. I want them also to know that just as I felt I might dissolve into a fit of tears that would surely last for days, the phone rang. Their dad. They;ll likely remember us working. Working during the day. Working at night. Working on the weekend. They may not remember my time at home with them, may not know how often I crept into their room to press my lips against the soft indent where their jaw lines met their ears, careful not to wake them, yet all the while wishing they would stir. We do work hard, probably always will, but even in the thick of it, there is a connection that sees him calling me just as I feel as if my heart may break.
We share smiles and tears over the things they say. Avery, hard at work in the bathroom, “Know why I do it this way mom?” she asked through clenched teeth. “No,” I say, “Why?” And she nods and says, “It’s just what humans do.” I replay the interactions at the park. “So she held this clover out to the ducks and the ducks looked at her like, ‘um, yeah, at least toss me a crouton, kid.” I explain, “And then all the duck toddle toward her and she starts whispering ‘I love you duckies. I’m so sorry, but I don’t have food this time, but I promise you that maybe next time I could bring you some,’ and I’ll be damned if they don’t listen to her.”
We are busy and driven, but there is always the axis, the role of parents to three spectacular girls. Each day I become more aware of how frightening a gift this really is. How ever will I sustain the distance that becomes necessary? How will I manage not getting to witness every moment? To not always be where you start and end your days?
Finley has become so verbal, such an incredible vocabulary and desire to communicate. I marvel at the new words each day, celebrating and mourning. I was thinking the other day that between the teeth, the sprinting and the counting, baby days were over. She gave me her look, this shoulder hitched up into her chin, lips pursed, eyes dancing, nose wrinkled look followed by wide eyes, a nod and, “Ah-mo?”
Milk. Mom. Still.
I break as I say yes and she explodes in a laugh and then leaps into my arms or flops onto the floor to nurse beside me. I won’t deny the intensity of my completion in her still needing and wanting this from me. She wraps her arms around me and sighs contentedly, “Ah-mo,” as she snakes a hand between my elbow and side. I kiss her hair and she looks up at me.
Flecks and sparkles from a life, fusing to create the terrain of my journey. I will revisit these precious grooves. My girls and my life.