J: (holding index finger and thumb an inch apart) When you were two, were you this big?
Me: No! When I was that big, I was still in my mama’s tummy!
J: Oh
[pause]
J: Did you have fun in there?
I think I work so hard at being content with winter that I can forget how wonderful spring really is.
And it really is wonderful.
[robin’s nest on our porch light]
[tulips, brought from backyard to adorn birthday table]
[endless variety bursting from buried bulbs]
Tomorrow is Mother’s Day.
I still don’t quite feel like I qualify as “Mother.” More like, “Girl With Babies.”
But mother I am.
Last night my baby grabbed a sweatshirt and stood before his adored daddy, eager to go outside and do something special. But my baby was tall and slim and boyish, his hair already sun-kissed bronze and tousled, his cheeks and nose no longer rounded with the chubbiness of a toddler, his cut-off shorts and freckles screaming: BOY. Growing boy. On his way to young man. My heart squeezed. I love him. I’m proud of him. And I miss my baby.
This morning kicks and flutters woke me, and I patted my tummy in response. Our secret little code that says, “I know you’re in there, and I love you!” My mind absently turned to weeks and months and due dates and I suddenly realized, I’ve got three months left. Three months! Didn’t I just begin the second trimester? Where did it go? Only three months before this becomes more than just pregnancy’s anticipation, and there is a new baby. And I am a mother times three.
And then a little hand rubbed my back: the chubby boy who is still the baby, for now. I roll over and smile at my little bed-mate, the one who still comes in every single night, the one who is like a heat-seeking missile, stirring over and over all night long, wedging his little body as close to mine as he can manage. He smiles at me, caresses my face, gives me a kiss. He talks so much, telling me about “one time, Mama…,” making up his own little jokes, and he follows close behind his brother’s heels, happy to explore the meadow and woods and play Star Wars with the big boys. Somehow, right under my nose, he grew from my sweet baby William into a little boy, and I don’t know when or how.
Mama. Mother. That’s me. And I feel like it should be Mother-in-Training, but to these little people, there’s no training about it: it’s real life. Every day, I’m really their mama. And they grow. And I grow.
And it’s the best thing in the world.
Plants amaze me. The fact that it all looks so, so dead, and then suddenly bursts forth into this miraculous display of life — it baffles my mind every single spring.
Of course, we had to wait an unusually long time for that bursting this year. My daffodils? Yeah. They spent weeks as courageous new leaves, with no sign at all that they would ever actually be flowers. But this week, we’ve made progress, and this was my kitchen table today:
There are so many beautiful varieties that are popping open: golden yellows and barely creams, big and small, orange trumpets, peach trumpets, red-rimmed trumpets — all so lovely.
Then there are all of the other miracles — hastas that I thought I’d (somehow!) lost have all popped up. The forsythia volunteer that I stuck in the ground actually bloomed. And the bee balm that I’d given up hope for last summer is not only back, but is thriving. Hollyhock, columbine, bleeding heart, day lilies, forget-me-not, myrtle, gloriosa daisies, cone flowers — they all survived!
And thanks to all of the years of gardening next to my mom, who sees it all with a spiritual lens, I can’t look at that amazing return of life without faith for seemingly-dead situations rising up in my own heart. Somehow, those budding plants are more than just the promise of a lovely summer garden: they’re a tangible reminder that life is God’s business. It’s what He does. Winter — even the longest, harshest, toughest winter the North Country can muster — can’t stop Him from bringing forth life.