Today is Adam’s first birthday. From our couch, I watch him cruise the living room, weaving in and out of midwinter sunbeams. He picks up a blue building block and passes it through the mail slot of our front door. Turning to me, he exclaims “Da-da-da!” while I hover my pen over my notebook.
“Good job, baby!” I reply, setting my pen down. I’m trying to think of a metaphor that encapsulates his spirit, but everything I write sounds stale. I guess love does that to you, doesn’t it? Sometimes love leaves you wide-eyed and bewitched, unable to translate the heft of your feelings into words.
Some call the first years of a child’s life “the wonder years” and for good reason. A year ago Adam was just a tiny babe who wanted nothing more than the comfort of my arms, but now he’s crawling and toddling. He’s hungry for new tastes and faces and experiences. And I’m stuck wondering how he underwent metamorphosis before my very eyes. How did he turn from shy smiles to rich giggles? How did he outgrow those tiny onesies? How did he move from tummy time to banging pots in the kitchen?
If my life was a sonnet, Adam would be the volta, the turning point where the speaker shifts her focus and entertains a new perspective. He burst into my world and gave me the courage to claim a new beginning. He was born the day Kim and I received an offer to write The Beauty of Motherhood. He was by my side as I wrestled words to the page in the midst of feeding and diaper duty. He woke me over and over at night and taught me there’s beauty in the darkness. He’s helped me laugh, slow down and appreciate the person I’ve always been and who I am becoming.
I read today that we’re approaching the halfway mark between winter and summer. Outside snow dresses the ground, trees and homes in our neighborhood. Steam rises and twists in the twenty degree air. Inside Adam abandons his game and scrambles toward me. I gather him up in a bear hug, relishing the warmth of his love. I could call him a wonder. I could call him a turning point. I could call him the midwinter sun.
Tag Archives: childhood
Our world
after “This World” by Mary Oliver
I would like to create a home
in which there are rarely any messes,
but that seems impossible
given the fact that children live here,
considering the Legos that sprinkle
our playroom floor and prick
our soles,
a deck of cards fanned out
across the coffee table,
oodles of library books littering
the kids’ bedrooms, each object a portal
to another realm where imagination reigns
and couch cushions meld
into the body of a race car,
a swingset transforms
into a shuttle rocketing to Mars,
stones unearthed
from the flowerbeds become
marble.
“We could be rich!”
my son cries, cradling his prizes,
holding them out to me like offering.
Dirt speckles his grin,
dresses his hands and feet,
piles next to him on the patio,
I sigh,
send him to rinse up, pick up my phone
and scroll the news,
confronting a barrage of harshness.
I sigh again,
but he laughs, unaware,
spraying his palms clean with the garden hose
— or is it a fire-breathing dragon?
(I would like to create a world
in which there are rarely any messes
but that seems impossible
given the fact that humans live here,
and they keep hurting
each other.)
I glance at my son’s hands,
fresh and five years young,
whatever they graze
shape-shifts from ordinary
to extraordinary.
Could they fashion
marble from our muck?
Maybe
we could be rich.
This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale — an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series “Ordinary Inspiration.”
Because one day . . .
Lately my desire to document the days has felt stronger than usual.
Maybe it’s because my due date is rapidly approaching. And that our firstborn turns five at the end of January, which means kindergarten’s on the horizon for him.
The days of big belly kicks and no diapers will be ending soon, and I want to remember what life looked like before our family expands.
Because one day Jack won’t fit in my lap when it’s “time for watching.”
One day he won’t dash into our bed upon waking and shimmy next to me under the warm covers.
One day he won’t scatter Hot Wheels like breadcrumbs near the baseboards, in the bookshelves or across the coffee table.
One day he won’t subsist on Cheez-Its, hot dogs and small gulps of air.
One day he won’t want to wear “cozy pants” with his favorite Superman shirt, worn soft from overuse.
One day he won’t say, “Wanna hear some rock-n-roll?” and plink the keys on his tiny piano. (Actually, I’m fine losing the tiny piano.)
One day he won’t race around the yard in circles, breathless at the sight of stars.
One day he won’t craft jewelry out of pipe cleaners and beads and present it to me proudly.
One day he won’t ask his dad to build him a race car from a giant cardboard box.
One day he won’t make snow angels and sand angels and leaf angels with glee.
One day he won’t cup my face in his hands and kiss my lips before he falls asleep.
One day his habits will change and his whole perspective will widen.
Because one day soon he’ll be a big brother. What a gift to see him grow.
// Inspired by Joy Becker’s “Because one day you won’t” series.
Erin Strybis 