Numbered

Remembering and holding on to these moments

Things have been hard lately. I can point to any number of things—the neverending year of January and the last 14 days without the sun peeking through, readjusting to the emptiness of the room next to mine, the moodiness of the 16 year old, my husband’s recent surgery and relative immobility, the weight of my job (always the weight of my job), friendships that feel more tenuous and less reliable—and without a doubt, those things add to the heaviness I feel. However, it feels more encompassing than that and my guess is that it is still the COVID hangover, the continued settling into the new way things are. In some ways, it feels stupid and irritating, and I am impatient that almost four years since it all started, I am still trying to acclimate to what life looks like now. But so many things about this adjustment are fundamentally different than any other adjustment in life. Everyone across the globe went through this at the same time. And while countries and cities and people managed it differently, it was something that affected us all. The primary buffer for any kind of change is our relationships. We were largely cut off from those. Sure, we maintained our close connections the best we could through screens and outdoor activities, and then eventually, in cautious, masked outings. But we lost all the microinteractions, the time with acquaintances, the general affirmation of the kindness of strangers. All of this while we watched the fabric of our societal connection to each other unravel in hate- and fear-filled words and actions. I know we have all heard these things over and over again in the past few years. I am sure you are as tired of them as I am. And yet, I have to keep reminding myself that likely this is what behind the pervasive gloom that can settle over me. Processing all the small and large losses of the past several years takes time. And we are all going through shit. At the same time. So we are less available to each other.

Of course, one of those losses was going to happen, regardless of COVID. Some afternoons, when I am lacing up my shoes to take the dog for an afternoon walk, I find myself almost surprised by the quiet. L is generally at practice and M, rehearsal. Even when they are home, they are usually holed up in their rooms. And while M has taken over for Z in the loud game play department and L still finds 10 or 10:30 pm to be the perfect time to pull out his guitar and start singing, the house can feel empty in a way that is so different from what seems like only a few years ago. In the eerie quiet, I can almost hear echoes of the little boys at play. M was always one for making strange, loud noises while at play. L was never still, never quiet. Only as he entered the teenage brooding has he quieted at all. Z always had something to say, some long story about Egypt or Minecraft or how certain mechanical things worked. The arguments were frequent when they were little. L was masterful at poking Z literally and figuratively until he lost his cool. L would play the pitiful victim, hoping to get his brother in trouble for falling prey to his pranks.

I can remember how much I wished for quiet. How many days I would wonder when I could again sit peacefully with a cup of tea and a novel. In addition to the noise was the constant movement and busyness of life then. I would get up around 5:15/5:30 a.m., usually in the darkness, to get out the door before 6 a.m. and to work before 6:30 a.m. I loved the quiet and for most of the year, the darkness. I didn’t love getting up so early, but I loved the time to myself before the boys woke up, before the busyness commenced. I would work a full, exhausting day and then rush home to try and meet the bus. I always wanted one of us to send the boys off to school and one to be there when they got home. It didn’t always work that way, but in the early days with the long school day at the charter school, we could make it work. Once I walked in the door, regardless of how tired I was, life was happening in full force. One or two children might need encouragement to do homework. How many days did we spend 30-45 minutes arguing about sitting down and doing a math set that took 10-15 minutes? There were asks to play with trains or blocks or board games or puzzles. Sometimes, when they were littler, requests to read books. So many of those days, I wanted five minutes to get a glass of iced water with a slice of lemon. To sit down and collect my thoughts, decompress from a long day and from what was always some version of a bad commute. But the second I walked in, little voices competed with questions and requests and demands. And little arms hugged my legs or hands reached out to pull me somewhere. And while, in the back of my mind I knew I should enjoy these days, knew they were numbered, it is, of course, only now that I fully recognize what it means to miss being so very loved and needed.

On my dresser are three photos of my boys. Z is picking blueberries, concentrated and focused on his efforts. L is full of joy with a little sprinkle of mischief, his eyes sparkling with delight. M has a huge smile as he captains a boat, wheel in hand. They are young—Z probably about 7 or 8, L about 5 or 6, and little M about 3 or 4. Captured and frozen in a time when problems were small and love was easily given and received. Life was never busier, never fuller, never louder, and never quite as full of love.

When I have these hard days, hard weeks, I try to look at those faces, remember those boys, remember those days that could also feel hard and long and overwhelming. And while this is a phase of transition from childhood out into the world and it holds loss for me, it also has always been the goal. And holds so much promise, hope, and joy.

And I know that there has never been and will never be a gift as great as being their mama.

Third

At five (with only three months left until six takes over), I know
the days when I feel your hand brush softly against my cheek
to wake me, 
encourage my movement toward the center of the bed,
so you can fold yourself into the small space left at the edge,
are like brightly colored leaves on the autumn trees.

So bright, brilliant, and present before they fall and fade and crackle
beneath the heavy footfall of boots, anticipating winter.

Numbered. 

Just as the sweet curiosity of your voice with 
your questions: 
“What is the opposite of a bee sting?” 
“Why can’t I have a field day at my preschool when I’m in Kindergarten?”
“How did you know I wanted to get out of your belly?”

your observations: 
“I feel shy and excited for school.”
“I think I must be related to chocolate.”
“I wish I could crawl back in your belly and you could have a girl first. 
(Because I want a sister.)
And THEN I could be born.”

At 2 a.m., when I open one eye and see you, waiting, wanting to invade 
my space and my sleep,
I don’t remember that this is a sliver of sunlight, 
just here for a moment before the hour shifts
and the light is
gone.

All photos were taken by the exceptional Dana Giuliana, unless otherwise noted.