The morning mother
When the sun dances in shadows on the wall through the blinds in horizontal stripes of brightness, you know the day is going to shine. Today the sky is dove grey and white and the light in the bedroom is dim. Dim enough to want to stay lingering in the warmth of the covers.
Today the boy is freshly two And though we’ve had days like this before, the laughter and fun that turns to tears from a bumped head or the suggestion to put a diaper on, the exchange on this day is heightened. It’s been two years of disrupted sleep. Of learning to be present,
or organic I say, about every moment of the day.
There’s no reason for getting dressed right now, we’re having fun with the puzzle and the cars and looking out the window at people heading to catch the streetcar to work. “Hello people,” he shouts with a grin.
“Let’s put your t-shirt on luv,” I sing.
“Noooooooooooooooooo,” he whines.
“Yes!” I offer.
“Uppy,” he says, shorthand for Pick me up, love me, don’t tell me what to do.
“We have to get dressed,” I say. We have to get dressed at a sooner-rather-than-later point. At a mama needs to get to work moment and papa is already dressed and gone. We need get on, begin, and get outside before the day gets away. We have to, so I can feel sane. Today I need to be more than mama playing cars and lounging in pjs and chasing and playing peekaboo. I need to meet according-to-me, that very basic level of human functions. Get dressed, get out the door.
Sometimes, of course, I do slow down and play and see the train shapes he’s referring to in the waffles we eat for breakfast. I take our shoes off and play with the rainwater the has collected in his little green wagon in yard. I do. I love it.
Sometimes, 3 hours can pass before I get us out the door. It can be blissful or maddening. I am confident and loving and singsong-y then raging with voice and blood pressure rising, furrowed brow and not-so-gentle words.
This morning I ran the garbage out, ran back inside, shut the door and ran up the stairs to grab socks for him, talking to him the whole time. When I made it back downstairs, he was outside on the porch, door slightly ajar, saying knock knock, a game I play with gusto when up on the second floor behind the bathroom door. He was, on the other side of the door, outside, where I’d been trying to get him for what felt like an eternity. And I raged.
“Don’t ever open the door without mommy,” I screamed.
He cried from fear. I cried for fear of what could have been.
He was outside. Alone.
I want to be calm. I encourage outdoor play, I fantasize about him playing on the street outside our home with other kids in the neighbourhood. I encourage independence and free play and nothing more happened, I have to tell myself. And the what-if’s will do nothing but make me mental so let them go.
He was outside, leaning in to call for me, and I was there. More present in my body than in my mind.
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