After raising four children, I have certain mental snapshots I keep close to my heart. There was the day when my 5-year-old held my hand to cross the street. He paused to look up at me and said, āMomma, I love you so hard.ā
There are those first few seconds when, after glancing over their shoulder, the realization sets in: Dad has let go of the back of the seat and they are, in fact, riding a two-wheeled bike. The eyes snap forward to focus on the sidewalk ahead; there is a momentary tremble of the handlebars, followed by a look of determination, then gleeful, sun-drenched, wind-through-the-hair laughter. (My daughter squealed, āIām doing it! Iām doing it!ā)
Another favorite milestone: when, after weeks of laboriously sounding out syllables, tiny fingers tracing the lines in a beginning reader book, the letters start to come together to form words, those words form sentences, and those sentences form stories. The child realizes theyāve cracked the code for that page; my eyes well up because I know the entire world has just opened up to them in a way that will change them forever.
These are moments I was lucky enough to witness. When I was in the thick of parenthood, raising four little humans under the age of 11, I know I did not treat every moment like a rare jewel. The stupor of parenting, when sleep is elusive and sticky fingers are prevalent, make some memories a bit hazy. But even I recognized a few of them for what they were: forever moments to gather up hungrily, then tuck away safely in my heart. I would be foolish to forget. I vow to revisit them again and again in my mind, and tell and retell them to my adult kids.
Have you ever had the privilege of having a baby fall asleep on your chest? Perhaps you are in a rocking chair in a comfy spot when you feel their head get heavier, until they finally lean into you. Their little fists may twitch a bit and tickle your neck. You will breathe in the intoxicating smell of the fuzzy down on their head, and you will hear their breathing, soft and fast.
At that moment, time stops. Dishes can wait, errands will happen tomorrow; right now, the baby asleep on your chest is the only thing happening. If you know whatās good for you, you will stay right in that moment, humbly offering your heartbeat as the soundtrack for baby dreams.
As I write this, Iām sitting on our front porch on a perfect summer day, a cool breeze swirling around my feet and the sound of songbirds earnestly interrupting each other. Two of my boys, no longer babies but grown men with beards, are sitting near me playing their guitars. The dog has settled down for a nap in the sun, occasionally snapping his jaw at a pesky fly. One guitar thrums with chords, while the other picks out a melody that flows over the top: I know the words, but I donāt dare sing them out loud:
Somewhere beyond the sea
Somewhere waiting for me
My lover stands on golden sands
And watches the ships that go sailinā
One son takes a solo, noodling over the chords of the old familiar tune. His brother nods approvingly. Without missing a beat, he smiles and says softly, āNice!ā
The musical conversation these brothers are sharing, and the absolute peace I feel at this moment brings back that familiar feeling: Iām in one of these magical moments right now, a moment encased in a brilliant but delicate bubble. I donāt dare breathe for fear of breaking it. I sit close by, trying to blend in to the scenery, hoping theyāll forget Iām here. Maybe I can stay suspended here with them like this for one, two, three more minutes so I can commit it to memory.
The thing about this song on the porch, I donāt know when it will end. I want it to stretch into one long, silky ribbon, unfurling through the bright blue sky, lassoing the clouds.
My eyes are closing, but this isnāt sleep moving in on me. Quite the opposite: my senses are awake, and my heart is open, while I hope for one more verse.
