Wandering Stars

Tonight before bedtime, my 10 and 6 year old daughters were sharing secret giggles and conversation in my eldest's bedroom. There was a secret brewing, something clandestine and powerful.

In her towel, naked from washing up, L., the eldest, says: "Mom, tonight P. told me something strange."

Busy, and wishing they would just get ready for bed after a long time of playing and procrastinating, I say "Go get dressed for bed and then tell me," without even looking at her. No mom points for me.

Dutifully she runs upstairs, youngest running behind. They talk some more and I wait.

Full of the power of announcement, they descend the stairs while L. finds a place to sit by me. L. says, "Mom, tonight P. told me something strange. She said.... She said I was starting to get breasts." They both look at me expectantly, I smile and say nothing for a second.

In that second, universes explode. Stars collide, shattering and bending matter beyond mere human comprehension. Breath is held. Eyes blink, stop, stare ahead. Look. Watch. Hope.

P. denies seeing anything. L. denies developing. Right there I drop the ball and ignore the elephant in the room: Do you want to develop breasts? I wonder what it will be like? Are you nervous?

This leads to a conversation about girls we know who have already started these changes, and about how every girl starts at a different time, how we are individuals and that's interesting. We all agree, without any mention at all of the giant elephant.

It is bed time, after all.

Right before bed, I get a giant hug from L., and I am feeling her girl body full of love, enjoying this moment that starts the transition, the wonder of a future imagined and full. I love her up, smell her, be her mom. It is my moment, and I am full of my own feelings. I start to forgive myself.

Then youngest runs over and hugs L. from behind, making her squish into me hard so I have to rebalance. It's noisy and rough and full of laughter. P. backs off momentarily and I say "P, please stop hugging L. right now." She laughs even harder, and runs into L. again, hugging us both even harder. She is balanced, holding on tight, enjoying the ruckus. L. is yelling in my ear, laughing, and I am Upset. Mad at this moment of loss, mad that I ignored the elephant in the room, mad at myself for being both of my girls and wanting only to be Mom. There is loss and it is small and hard and painful. "P!" I yell. "Stop hugging L. while she is hugging me!"

Negative Mom points.

She withdraws, quiet, head hanging. I kiss L., and get kisses while P stands alone. L. happily runs off to bed. P. starts crying. "It's the yelling," she quietly sobs. "I hate the yelling."

We are both now ignoring the elephant in the room. In one swoop, I hug her and pick her up, tell her I am sorry, and admit to acting rashly and apologize. I explain that it is hard for me to balance, that I was only hugging L., that I asked her once to stop and even after she heard me she did it again, and that I was angry. We go to her room for bedtime, and she is sullen, there is no way to undo the yelling. She looks at me, we exchange nighttime chat, and then we're quiet. She turns away from me. I lay down for a couple of minutes and see if I can step into that damage or if it is too late this time. Sleep offers convenient silence.

I was angry.

Elephants, rampaging.

My daughters make room for permanent teeth and share their bodies' secrets.

I am lucky to see the stars as they explode around me, gaining mass through distance and time.

Winter, Seeds and Homes

Today marks three weeks since my mother died. The evening of the funeral was tense and sad, and ended with a dramatic family blowout. We all survived that to endure a night full of major thunderstorms with golf ball-sized hail and tornadoes in the next county as a massive cold front moved in. 40 degrees colder, the next morning we left for home, driving into snow.

Yesterday was a big, strange, sad day for me. I found my own deep sadness creeping up on me every time I tried to think or work. My inability to quietly and easily meet other people's real needs was maddening and confusing. I was not able to partition them off until later; they were there, now, and yet I still had to parent and make dinner, still had to somehow talk politely to my children while they yelled at each other all. day. long.

In bed, late, alone, I talked to my mom. I told her all my little sadnesses. I apologized for things I wasn't really responsible for. I cried when my hands remembered carefully lifting her body as I picked her up to help her onto the toilet. I cried when I still smelled her skin.

I wear her winter coat.

This morning I cried, grieving the kind of family affection I didn't know was possible until I created it with Chris. I didn't know, and I wished I could have known. An idealized fantasy of involved grandparents, still physically able to baby sit and take children on trips to the theater, or help build a shed. I cried for all the things my children missed, and that I won't be able to give them.

So I gave in, and went outside to share my grief with the trees and snow. I found seeds and homes:  the things we all become and make, together.