Like so many things, it began so simply and so innocently.
A touch of curiosity, some tentative motions,
and then comes the comfort with the new.
And with the comfort, joy.
And with the joy, a mess.
A mess of chocolate.
A mess of laughter.
A mess of life.
Happy birthday to our little man.
Sort of…
The irony about mothers is that, while everything — everything — depends on them, we often take them for granted. Without them, our existence wouldn’t merely be meaningless; it simply wouldn’t be. And yet we let them do their magic as if their behind the scenes is total absence: we don’t notice, we don’t think, we don’t thank.
They make our lives possible and we thank them by trying to make their lives impossible.
They pack our afternoon snacks while we’re off doing more important things. All the while, they put off their own “more important things” — playing, of course — for years while wiping our butts, feeding our faces, cleaning our scratches, changing our sheets, and a million other little tediums become, by complete choice, the center of their lives.
They give us life, then give us their lives. They stay up late ironing our clothes and get up early to pack our lunch. They share when they know that sharing is anything but.
And in the midst of it all, the best ones never seem to lose their sense of humor.
I’ve been fortunate regarding mothers in my life. So many mothers, sadly, are unable or unwilling to accept the responsibilities of motherhood (and sadly, the number of men unable or unwilling to accept the responsibilities of fatherhood dwarfs the number of unwilling mothers), and so to be surrounded only by good examples (of both mothers and fathers) has been a blessing. A blessing that I generally take for granted, true, but at least occasionally, I wake up and realize that I haven’t considered the pack of blessings laid on my back in a considerable time.
When the morning starts like this, I know I’ll be spending the day outside working in the yard. This in turn means that K will be inside, cleaning, doing laundry, caring for the Little Man. Our own little division of labor.
First up: the row of bushes — no idea what species — that runs between our driveway and our neighbors’. Mr. C has told me, “Cut those things back as much as you want.” They’re planted on his property, but they spill onto ours: I treat them as mutual property. But I take him at his word and usually do both sides myself.
This year, things are especially bad. The briers and honeysuckle at the end of the driveway have taken over. You can’t even see the two trees at the base of the driveway unless you look up. Then again, they’re Liquidambar styraciflua, Sweet Gums (or as I prefer to call them, Satanically Evil Indestructible Overly-Fertile trees), so who really wants to see them?
I get out the trimmer and decide, in the words of Marsellus Wallace, to get medieval on it.
It’s all futile, I know: I’ve already spent an entire day cleaning out the briers, digging up roots, pulling down the vines. That was some five years ago, though, and I must admit to my surprise at how long it took things to return to their previous condition.
I suppose in another five years I’ll do it again. The bushes, though, only have a year of respite.
It can be a joyful experience, with smiles and giggles and obvious relief on the face of the starving Boy. He opens his mouth wide; he waits patiently for the spoon; he closes his mouth slowly and seems to relish and inhale the food at the same time.
It can be a tragedy, with fussing and battling, with a head jerking back and forth in an almost desperate attempt to say “No!,” with hands flailing and pushing away the spoon to make sure the message gets through.
Whatever the case, the cleaning that follows can be Herculean. Food smeared here, there and everywhere. Dried caked food on the chin, the cheeks, the forehead.
But it always ends the same.
Food is joy for the little man. All food. Any food. He tries it all, rejects almost nothing, and seems to relish even the most exotic offering.
Truth be told, that’s a bit of a relief compared to the Girl, who still squawks and squeals whenever we try to get something new in her.
Change is good.