Breathtakingly Beautiful, Insignificant Moments

When our kids were toddlers and even into grade school, I’d find that at night, when the room was dark, I could squint my eyes, stare at them sleeping in their beds and see them as babies. I could almost feel their soft, baby’s breath on my neck and their warm bodies in my arms. There they were, big kids, but with a little darkness and just a bit of squinting, I could still envision those babies of mine.

Those small, pudgy babies disappeared and now I step over piles of smelly shoes, textbooks and sports equipment by the back door.  We no longer worry about the cost of diapers and braces, instead, we lay awake worrying about cost of three kids in college at the same time. Because we never successfully mastered the family planning thing, we also have a fourth child bringing up the rear.

In the early years of our marriage, when the kids were small, my husband and I would limp upstairs, utterly exhausted, to put them to bed.  We read the same favorite books over and over until we feared for our mental health.  I’m pretty certain, fourteen or fifteen years reading Cars! Cars! Cars! killed more brain cells than any bad decision I made during my youth.

Time is smooth and seamless. Each day spent with our young family was noisy and chaotic. Like a thief in the night, change was silent: babies became toddlers and toddlers became big kids. Routines changed. Preferences evolved. How could I have known the night I placed The Runaway Bunny back onto the shelf, I would never be asked to read it again? Well over a decade of reading this tattered book and I placed it along side the other books on the shelf without thought or notice, without ceremony. This old, well-loved friend was literally shelved. This simple act of putting away a book was profound: the end of an era. In that exceedingly ordinary and seemingly insignificant moment, part of their childhood and my mothering, was over.

Recently, I observed all four of the kids in the kitchen. I watched them in a way I hadn’t before. I noticed how they interacted. There was banter and music and laughter. They discussed politics and parties. Someone was in a headlock, because, well, someone is ALWAYS in a headlock (Will I mourn the passing of The Headlock Stage?). Still, I listened to the funny and intelligent conversations they were sharing.

In that moment, I realized I no longer wanted to squint to envision the babies I used to hold. I discovered something more magical and more joyful than seeing babies in big kids. In the full light of day, right there in our kitchen, I breathed in an amazing sight: our kids were becoming bright, funny, articulate adults. They had great taste in music, engaging friends, and educated opinions. They spoke languages I hardly knew existed when I was young. Year after year of profoundly insignificant moments brought us to this point. My role with our older children has been downgraded to that of a consultant: equal parts guiding, encouraging and trying to keep out of the way. Those babies I once so fiercely guarded were now ready to launch, the world and their passions crystalizing before them.