The love I feel for my kids is measured on an astronomical scale. I look into their eyes and I’m launched into hyperspace, soaring through the astral planes of consciousness, one with all that is, was, and all that isn’t. Lightyears are insufficient to describe how far I would go for them.
I gaze into the blue love puddles nestled in their adorable little faces, and I see my purpose, my true self, my everything. Their laughter cracks the icy shell covering my heart, and from that opening emerge ephemeral tendrils of joy that fill my whole being with peace.
Also I had surgery on my most sensitive favorite area to make sure it never, ever happens again.
I went into parenting believing what I think most people believe: that it’s hard but rewarding. You put in the sleepless nights and the tantrums and the slow extinguishing of your romance, and somewhere on the other side is this claw machine of joy. You feed in your hardship and occasionally the claw swings down and picks up a heartwarming moment that makes it all worth it.
I’m starting to think that’s not actually what’s happening.
Not because it isn’t hard, and not because it isn’t full of moments that turn your insides to pure goo. It’s both of those things, sometimes in the same thirty seconds. It’s more that positioning myself as a participant in some casino of joy and tragedy, trying to maximize the good and minimize the bad, might be causing me to miss the point of the whole thing.
My four-year-old, Mae, won’t eat grilled cheese. She will, however, eat an egg sandwich with NO EGG. Yesterday I made the egregious mistake of asking her to take a few more bites of her grilled cheese, to which she responded by chucking the perfectly cut equilateral triangle of toasted melty goodness directly into the dog’s mouth. I was left both furious at the mockery of my hard-wired instinct to nourish my children, and impressed at her throwing accuracy.
Last week I was changing Gus’s diaper standing up, because if you put him on his back he turns into a writhing, poop-propelled octopus with the grip strength of an adult man. My hands were completely occupied, wiping between the folds while making sure he doesn’t launch himself off the changing table. He took the opportunity to grab two fistfuls of my hair, look me directly in the eyes, smile at me…and headbutt me right in the nose.
Every single night, Mae appears at the side of the bed at 2am and begins issuing requests. One at a time. A glass of water, with ice, no straw. A reminder that the humidifier needs to be refilled. Four specific lovies that could be anywhere in the house. Last night it turned out that the last one I spent 20 minutes looking for (Uh Oh the Elephant) was with her the whole time. And she knew it.
Then I wake up with her arm around me and her head on my chest and her breathing is ASMR for my soul.
The longer I’m a parent, the more I find some clichés are annoyingly true. The days are long and the years are short. I already miss when Gus was just a little potato I could set down for thirty seconds without him immediately running toward the nearest intersection. Someday, before I know it, he’ll be driving through that same intersection. And I’ll wish all it took to keep him safe was scooping him up.
The trap is that I keep waiting for a different version of them to arrive, or wishing I could get back to a version that’s already gone. Gus as a potato. Mae before she had opinions about cheese. But they’ve never been more or less themselves than they are right now. Everything they ever were is still in there. Everything they’re going to be is already on its way. When I’m living in the past or the future, I’m missing the only place they actually exist.
It’s still mud season. It’s still cold enough to hurt your face in the morning, and most of the world is still varied shades of dog poop brown. But the spring peepers are peeping, woodpeckers are woodpecking, and the daffodils are daffodilling. The world is dotted with murmurations of red winged blackbirds and skunk cabbage flowers and pussy willow puffs.
I’m looking forward to the blossoms and greenery and not being able to see my breath anymore. But I’m trying not to miss April because I’m waiting for May.
P.S. On Thursday 4/2 I’m opening a small number of Slow Spring Farm Sessions for you fine folks who read these things.
This is a chance to get something fun and meaningful on your calendar before the mud explodes into soccer, graduations, and suddenly it’s the 4th of July.
Forty five minutes at golden hour on the farm. The alpacas are at peak fluffiness. We pick one thing to do at the start: feed the animals, wander the fields, let your kids just be somewhere beautiful.
12 sessions across 6 dates through the end of May. $790 gets you the session and at least 30 high rez photos (probably way more.)
The peepers are already out, and booking closes once spots are full. Reach out here if you’re interested and I’ll make sure you get first dibs when it opens.
