I remember when this was taken--probably close to a year ago. I had gotten off work, and mom and Soph with the umbrellas, hot chocolate and sweat pants, were just coming back from a long walk. The family friend happened to walk up behind us and have us turn around and snap a picture. I am so glad she did. :)
When I look at this picture(especially with it being mothers day) I am just amazed at how blessed I am to have the mom I do. Truly, I cannot even tell you what it is like having Wonder Woman for your mom!
So, as I tried to decide how on earth I would cover such a truly divine topic--motherhood--I thought I would turn to a piece a wrote almost exactly a year ago.
Chapters
“Are you a mom?” a tiny voice asked me quizzically as I stood on the elementary
school playground. Her beautiful round face was dark, but rosy as the kickball
her two tiny arms attempted to wrap themselves around—the kind of ball that
used to leave an imprint of the cross-hash grip on your skin if you ever got
hit—the kind of ball I was terrified of when I was her size. It seemed some
days that it never even was; it was hard to believe that at some point in time
we all used to see the world from 3 feet above the blacktop. But now, over two
and a half feet higher, and nine or ten years from that time, I stood on the
playground with a little girl sizing me up, and trying to determine what I was
exactly. Amidst the laughter and squeals that filled the air, I looked down at
her, and replied, “No, I’m here to see my sister—she’s over there.” “Who’s your
sister?” as if my explanation wasn’t enough. “I’m Sophie’s sister.” I pointed
to the basketball court, and at my sister, who was playing lightning with some
of her classmates. She really is good at basketball, and far better than I am,
especially at her age. I had been deathly shy. It’s funny how you can have the
same parents and end up with a rough-and-tumble blonde, and a tall brunette who
would rather be taking photos and writing cook books. We hardly even look like
sisters, but when we sing, it is the only time that you can’t tell us apart. I
barely sound older, and looking at us, I am much taller, though the margin is
slowly diminishing. We all know I’ll come home one day, and she will have
passed me up, and I will officially be the shortest sibling. And someday, I’ll
have to try to convince by kids that I really was the tallest, until their
Uncle Ben passed me up when I was eighteen and a half, and he was fourteen. How
we all just seem to grow up is remarkable if you step back and attempt to grasp
it.
The little girl looked suspiciously at the court, her brow furrowed, then
looked back at me. “You mean Sophia?” She almost sounded disgusted that I
couldn’t say her name “right.” It took me a moment to register her
response—you forget that the crazy, spunky blonde at home, who goes by Sophie,
Soph, Sopha, and Sopha-doph, is know to the rest of the world as little miss
Sophia Kathryn. You also forget that her world is far smaller, and
everything in it is far bigger than any of us realize. Somehow we seem to
forget we were ever even in those shoes—of not knowing who we even are.
I think of my future: We had a choir concert last night, and the conductor read
off our note cards that had our plans after high school. My card included my
college, major, and then at the end, after the degree is earned, and other
chapters are unfolding, I added that I am going to be a mom, and write
cookbooks. A friend came up to me afterwards and asked if I had actually put
that down—thinking the director had randomly added it. I reassured her that
they were my own words. The future is a funny thing. It strikes me as sad, that
someone can’t honestly say they want to be a mom—plan on being a mom someday.
When I think of that playground and watching my sister among all of those other
little worlds, I wonder what I'll do when I have tiny worlds that make up my
own—and when I am their world at the beginning of their journey on this earth.
At that point you realize that all you can truly do is love
them—unconditionally, and forever. Then you realize that someday you have to
send them out into the world, prepared with the knowledge that they are
special, and they are loved. I don’t know what I’ll do when they come home
upset that a classmate called them this, or told them that. What else can you
do but wrap your arms around them, and tell them that no matter what, you love
them, and that it is ever important to remember that they are just a special as
the other child—that no matter what, we can still love people even if we don’t
agree with what they say. I guess you tell them that you are so blessed to have
them in your life—which is so true, no matter how hard it may be some days.
And what do you do when they don’t want to go back—into that world that sees
them as another tiny person, incapable of feeling or emotion. I remember crying
and screaming to not make me go back to kindergarten, but I also remember a
bright-red lipstick kiss, on the top of my tiny hand. It was mom’s kiss, which
I would get in the morning, and would last till I got home that afternoon. I’m
one of the very blessed ones—I have always known that I’m loved. How do the
children who don’t know that, survive this critical world? Mine won’t be among
those.
Sometimes I wish I could recall more of my time in that tiny world, but maybe
it is good to forget some. I vividly remember my 1st grade
teacher saying one thing that has stayed with me ever since. I had forgotten my
lunch at home, so I asked to call and have my mom bring it up. My teacher, with
her blonde hair, and long red fingernails, looked at me and got a little closer
to my face, then said those haunting words; “Your mother has your brothers at
home—she doesn’t have time for you.” I believe that I bought lunch that day.
I
asked my mom about that moment a while back, and she told me how angry she was
that that first grade teacher had had the audacity to say that. I would be
horrified if anyone told one of my siblings that I didn’t have time for them—I
can’t imagine someone saying that to your own child. Look at me: that happened
over eleven years ago, and I remember it like it was yesterday.
Back
on the blacktop, the little girl then turned to me, as I reassured her that
Sophia was in fact my sister. Her face lit up, “Oooh, So-PHI-a.” She then ran
off—disappearing as undetected as she had arrived. I still just stood there
though, waiting for my own mom—our mom—as she was talking to Sophie on the side
of the court. I believe the whole reason we were there was to bring her
something; maybe even a lunch. But I stood watching the two of them, and
thinking how that used to be me, and mom used to bend over and look me in the
eye just how she was talking to Sophie. I never felt like I was as small as I
actually was. Now, I look down at my mom, and you begin to realize that your
parents are human—trying to just do their best—and that they were once in your shoes.
Mom
walks over to me, and Sophie returns to her game—it was one of those precious
moments that are ever so fleeting, but for an instance life seems crystal
clear. I just watched her walk—a decade on her shoulders since I was in a tiny
world like all of those children. She is still just as soft, and just as
remarkable. When she calls my cell phone, it doesn’t say “mom” but “wonder
woman.” Wonder Woman walked over to me, and together, we headed for the gate.
Children would dart in front of us, other parents would walk in, but I just
took the time to reflect on the fact that the chapter was closing. I had huge
shoes to fill.
Since
that day, I’ve thought a lot about that question: Are you a mom? That is
something I will probably ask myself from the day that is a reality, through forever. I have many chapters to open and enjoy before I get there, but the
pages seem to turn faster as you grow older. With that, I begin to imagine how I
want to read those chapters as well. College is at my front door—and my life is
just beginning. I have so many opportunities and experience I can look forward to having. Life never unfolds how you think it will, but that is what makes it
worth while.
In a world where having a high paying job is more impressive,
and children are being seen as a nuisance, I have no doubt that one day, most
likely sooner than I can even comprehend, someone will ask me that same
question: Are you a mom? And I look forward to the day—that chapter—when I will
turn to them and say, “YES!”
With that said, I want to put it in writing right now, that being a mother, and being a woman are divine callings. It is demanding, it is hard, it is challenging, it is exhausting, it is stressful, it is discouraging, it is rewarding, it is exciting, it is beyond special, it is more important than you will even know, it is beautiful, it is sacred, and again, above all, it is divine.
Thank you, Mom.
Tayler
