Five Minute Friday, plus OMG, She’s Alive!

So it’s been a while… *crickets*

Life has been crazy, beautiful, amazing, scary and busy since the move to Cape Town. I promise to write a little more about that later.

For now, I am once again linking up with Gypsy Mama, Lisa-Jo Baker (who often makes me cry and always makes me think), for her Five Minute Friday prompt. The idea is that you write for five minutes without editing or worrying about what others will think. You just write what’s on your heart. This week’s prompt was Song. Here goes:

 

I sing the body electric. My body. This electric body.

Electric with dizziness and nausea. Electric with heat and cravings and the need to pee again and again and again. Electric with emotion.

Electric with new life.

A new song in my heart. This new almost person. This new adventure for a small family of ‘us’. Us becoming bigger. Us becoming more. As my body becomes bigger and more.

Like the beat of African drums the beat beat beat of a new heart. It is early days, the song is quiet still. But soon it will grow louder. The song swells as my body does, but the ‘us’ melody remains. The band is growing. As is the joy and the praise and the wonder.

Sometimes I wish it wasn’t so hard to be a mother

Sometimes my child is so badly behaved and demanding and selfish and I-don’t-care-that-you-have-needs that I want to run from the house screaming at the top of my voice. I want to run as far as I can, to place that is quiet like a Bjork song and empty like fog. Someplace just my own, where I rule the pink fluffy clouds and sunny skies and soft green grass. A place that stays tidy and neat as a pin; where the food cooks itself, the laundry is always washed (and ironed), the dishes are always done, and the bathrooms never need to be cleaned. A place where no-one needs juice or a muffin or to ask me a really important question Right Now.

A place where I get to hold and nurture the selfish child within.

Sometimes my child’s episodes of bad behaviour last for weeks – months, even – and I can’t help the feelings of surging anger and resentment. Feelings that fill me with guilt, but that I am powerless to stop. And eventually, even the guilt starts to foster resentment because no corner of my emotional landscape, or mind or space or life is mine alone.

It is all consumed by this little person who runs roughshod over my emotions and needs because he hasn’t yet learnt that the world doesn’t exist to do his bidding. And then I realise that that’s My fault. Because I am his teacher, his life coach, his purveyor of knowledge. And yet again I feel guilty and angry because despite my very best efforts I have failed. Failed to teach him to care for the feelings of others, failed to help him develop the independence to entertain himself, failed to raise a child that I can actually live with.

And live with him I must. Just like I must teach him. Teach him and guide him and tutor him and lead him and then teach him some more. Because if he doesn’t understand that it is unacceptable to throw a monumental tantrum because I won’t let him play a Wii game all afternoon, or drink a juice that consists of nothing but colorants and artificial flavours; it is my job to fix it.

And this is not a job I can quit. This is not a job I can give up on because it is too hard. This is not a job that I have any choice but to continue. Because the wake up, fetch, carry, work, entertain, wipe snotty nose, cook, clean, always-someone-else’s-agenda merry go round isn’t something I can walk away from. Even if I am bone weary about three leagues beyond the point of exhaustion. Even if today I feel that I just can’t win, that this is the one thing that I simply cannot do, that this is all too much and I Just Can’t Breathe. I must carry on and push through and nurture and remember that he’s just a child and doesn’t understand and smile while I’m at it.

I guess that’s what it means to be responsible. What it means to be a mother.

Sometimes I wish it wasn’t so hard.

“Light tomorrow with today!” Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Another Five Minute Friday.

Prompt: Light

When we first decided to move to Cape Town, people warned me about the weather. About how cold and wet and dank and miserable winter in the Mother City can be. So of course we decided to move just in time for winter. Well, it’s not quite winter yet. More like autumn. But the wet weather has certainly started.

In fact, there have been quite a few days of wet, wintry, windy (ye Gods, the wind!) weather. Dark mornings saturated with cold and drizzle.

And yet all I feel is light. It’s like bright, beautiful, yellow, early-morning sun shining into my consciousness.

Light. Weightless. Like a huge burden has been lifted from my shoulders.

Light, lit from within, a fire and passion for life – for love – rekindled.

Because for the first time in many years, I feel safe. And welcome. And like I am a part of something greater than myself – a community.

No matter that it hasn’t been easy to make a move of this magnitude. No matter that I miss my friends and family every day. No matter that I’m realising how much I loved the house I left behind, and how hard it is to rent.

Because even though this is hard – so hard – and should threaten to drop me into the subterranean darkness of all-too-familiar depression, I still feel so much lighter than I did in Joburg. In every possible way.  And I can feel a change in our family. Somehow, we have more time. For each other, for ourselves, for those around us.

I would hate to be one of the naysayers to leave a city and then spout negativity about it, especially since I think that Joburg still has something going for it.

So all I will say is this: I think they call it the Mother City for a reason, because I already feel nurtured here. It’s like the soft beach soil that clings to my son’s feet holds some nutrient that I didn’t know that we needed or were missing until we got here.  So as I find the strength to slough off the skin of jadedness, insularity and distrust that I managed to acquire in almost 15 years in the City of Gold, I welcome the new (old) me.

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”

― Martin Luther King Jr., A Testament of Hope: The Essential Writings and Speeches

Bravery in the absence of fear isn’t really bravery at all

“Bran thought about it. “Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?”
“That is the only time a man can be brave,” his father told him.”
― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones

A Five Minute Friday prompt from The Gypsy Mama that I finally feel brave enough to post. I did write this on a Friday, though. In 5 minutes.

For those that don’t know what the Five Minute Friday prompt is, here’s what Gypsy Mama Lisa-Jo says about it: “Around here we write for five minutes flat on Fridays. We finger paint with words. We try to remember what it was like to just write without worrying if it’s just right or not. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.”

 The prompt: BRAVE

Right now, I need to be braver than I’ve needed to be for a long time.

I’m just made a cross country move with my family, to a city in which I have never lived and only know a very few people. I’m scared. And because I was the one who pushed for this move, I feel as though I have to be brave for my husband and son. That’s really hard when you want to burst into tears at inopportune moments, at the thought of leaving your friends and family behind.

You see, I’ve never been very good at making friends. I’m shy and find it so super hard to put myself out there. And I’m chronically insecure, so even if I do manage to put myself out there and meet new people, I assume that they’re just being nice or polite and that they don’t Really want to be my friend.

And once I have made friends, it would seem that I’m not particularly good at keeping them. I’m selfish and self-absorbed and prone to depression which makes me withdraw from the world because I don’t want anyone to see me weak. And because I’m so disorganised I’m often unintentionally thoughtless and forget people’s birthdays and anniversaries and kids birthdays and first days of school and all the other stuff you’re supposed to remember. And when I don’t know what the right thing to say is, I don’t say anything at all. Because I don’t want to upset my friends even more or make them think of stuff that makes them unhappy, and this makes it seem like I don’t care when someone is going through a hard time and needs my support. I’m also not very perceptive, so if my friend’s need a shoulder to cry on they need to be pretty explicit and tell me so. Apparently, I’m a pretty shit friend, as has recently been pointed out to me in all its grisly and painful detail.

And this makes me even more afraid, because if this is how the people who have known me for a decade feel, how the hell am I going to make and keep New friends in a new city?!

The legacy of women, as illustrated by the handmade revolution and my personal revelation

I come from a family of women who are really talented crafters. My grandmother was an amazing professional dressmaker for most of her life (making everything from wedding and matric dance dresses, to teen Goth gear). My mom has always produced the most incredible knitted creations and – having tried almost every craft out there (if you want proof, just look at her craft supplies) – is known for the diversity of craft skills. My aunt has always been a truly gifted quilter and textile artist. My entire life has been spent around needlework, crafts and handmade goods – from candle-wicking to quilling, from quilting to crochet, from beading to pottery. Like the Jane Austen novels I love, the women of my youth always had some sort of stitch work project on the go.

The women that helped to shape who I am spent a lot of time making beautiful things and, while they made, they shared. They shared their time, their skills, their stories, and themselves. My mom, aunt and gran used to attend craft courses together. Sometimes, one of them would go on a course and come home to teach the others her newly-acquired skills. In hindsight, I recognise that this is probably because we weren’t rich and those courses were likely too expensive for all of them to attend. Yet that never stopped them. One of my most distinct memories is of sitting around the dining room table with the women in my family; hand painting vases and quilling decorations for my sister’s wedding. I can’t tell you what happened to those decorations, but I could describe in great detail the warm light that night and the soft hum of women’s voices interspersed with cackles of laughter. I have a similar memory from years later: of sitting with the same group of women, in the now-married sister’s home, working on various decoupage projects. (Mine wasn’t very good)

This constant activity provided a wonderful environment in which to grow up. I hold dear many memories of the comforting hum of a sewing machine and the steady click of knitting needles. It was an environment in which women supported and loved each other – one in which the everyday grind of work and parenting was put aside, along with family politics and all the other things that seem to work to keep sisters, mothers, daughters and women apart. The nurturing support that the women in my family provide to each other is one of the greatest reasons that I miss my mother, sister, aunt and gran so very much.

As a child, being surrounded by so much creativity never really struck me as unusual. But I realise now how lucky I was to be exposed to so much skill and talent. Watching these wonderful women spend time together as they worked on projects both individual and communal is probably the direct cause of my love affair with all things handmade and my obsession with the artisanal. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until very recently that I tapped into my own desire to craft and express myself creatively. So while teaching myself to knit and sew has given me great joy, I’ve also felt a great deal of sadness as I missed the women who should have been here to teach me. I have felt a keen sense of longing for the older generation of women from whence I come. Perhaps it is because I miss them and yearn for their presence so much, that I have become so fixated on possessing one of the heirloom items that they have produced – a quilt for my marriage bed. Fabulous hand-knitted jersey’s for my young son.

And yet, I don’t own a single item created by one of the incredible women who helped shape who I am. This has really bothered me for the longest time. In fact, it’s become a bit of a chip on my shoulder. But tonight I had an epiphany as I sat browsing $500 dollar quilts on Etsy – seriously and unrealistically considering saving my pennies so that I could buy one (even though I know that the women of my family could produce much better work). As beautiful as the hand-made products are, as much work and time and craftsmanship as they demonstrate, it is the love that they signify that makes them so important to me. It is the sense of family and continuity that they demonstrate that makes me so desperate to own one.

So I won’t save up for months to buy a quilt on Etsy. Because, even though I so often feel disconnected from the sense of belonging and continuity that one feels when one’s family lives on the same continent, I do have that love. It just happens to be love sent from afar. It shows in my love of all things craft-related, in my burgeoning creativity, in my never-consciously learned knowledge of selvedge and fabric grain.

But most of all it lies in those tender memories of watching my mother perfect the art of the colonial knot (a candle-wicking stitch), of knowing that she loved me enough to search every fabric store in Durban to find the perfect fabric for the perfect matric dance dress, of countless dress fittings as my gran went on to make that perfect dress (which I still own), of time spent watching my aunt sew while we shared a cup of tea and I begged (ok, manipulated) her to give me chocolate. And of evenings spent surrounded by women – mothers, daughters, aunts, grandmothers, sisters and cousins – quilling wedding decorations over a cup of coffee. The true legacy of the women in my family lies in those memories and not in anything made by human hands.

Catholicism is bad for your knees

I have horrible knees. Really, really horrible knees. They’re fat, and flat (who has flat knees!?), and strangely misshapen. They’re pale, and pasty, and the skin is a strange texture. I blame bad genes and years of Catholicism.

These knees have not seen the light of day (or night) for a long, long time. And yet today, for the first time in 20 years, I am wearing a dress that allows them to be visible. To see and be seen by the world at large.

Why? Because I am making a concerted effort to do what makes me happy and not care about what other people think. To make peace with myself and the way I look. That, and the fact that I went shopping on one of my rare brave days and decided to buy the totally cute 60s inspired shift that I loved – even though I would ordinarily have left it behind because of the ‘knees on show’ issue.

So now I sit in my office too nervous to walk to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee lest people start pointing and laughing, or sneering and whispering behind their hands, or gasping and…. You get the idea. Because on an emotional level I totally believe that it could happen, even though my brain tells me that no-one cares about my knees.

I know that I should be/get over this. I am no longer a child and being filled with all of this teen-like angst and insecurity is no longer excusable. I should be doing mature and cathartic shit, like writing letters to 14 year old Me. Telling her that the insecurity that consumes her will pass. That she will outgrow it and find a deep level of acceptance, appreciation for her body and endless pools of self-esteem to draw on.

But that isn’t true because sometimes (read: often) I feel just like 14 year old Me, trapped in 32 year old Me’s body.

Today is one of those days.

But at least I’m trying, and putting the knees of horror on display. That’s progress, isn’t it? I may even work up the courage to get a cup of coffee later.

*Edited to add: I have been struck by a new wave of confidence and am thinking:

F*ck Flattering. Wear what makes you happy.

Let’s see how long it lasts…

 

 

 

I’m not a slacker. I’m a sociological post-materialist.

Not all who wander are lost – JRR Tolkien

I’ve been back at work since the beginning of the year and have enjoyed my job and the people I’ve worked with. But I have to come clean and say that I really don’t like working. And I don’t mean in the ‘work can be such hard, well, work’ kind of way; but in the sense that I find it completely pointless and unfulfilling.

Yes, I realise that survival is a pretty good point and that I need to make money to put food on the table, and blah blah yawn. This is why I still get out of bed in the morning. But meeting these basic needs isn’t really making me happy, leaving me satisfied (just ask Maslow), or providing enough motivation for me to keep doing it in the long term.

I suppose that I could try to pretend that I care about getting rich and accumulating wealth. But I’m just not finding the quest for riches a driver anymore. Sure, I like beautiful things, but I increasingly find myself wanting to create rather than consume beauty. In fact, I’m really into the idea of re- and up-cycling stuff rather than buying more new things. Not to sound like a tree-hugger, but there are only so many resources available and we should probably try to conserve some of them. Not to mention the fact that the quest to acquire just feels to me like it’s in poor taste right now. It’s a pretty different mind-set I find myself in…

For a while I thought that I was fooling myself into believing that I felt this way, and that deep down I was still the rabid consumer that I’ve always been. So I tested my theory and tried to go shopping. About 5 times. I tried my favourite stores. I tried new stores. I tried highly recommended stores and unheard of stores. I tried cheap stores and expensive stores. And each time, I would leave the shops either empty handed, or with one or two purchases that I made because I had a real need.

Not only do I not want to buy new stuff, I desperately want to get rid of the stuff I already have. As we prepare to move (more on that in a separate post), J and I are sorting through our mountains of stuff and identifying the stuff that we want to give to charity or sell. Most of the time I want to pack the essentials (like my books, laptop, a few craft supplies, and enough clothes to not become a nudist) and then call a charity store to come and collect the rest. And when I am in any retail environment I keep finding myself thinking: “Well, I could buy this – but what’s the point? It’s just one more thing that I’ll have to store, clean, and move.”

To me, it makes perfect sense that a severe reduction in my acquisitive drive means a drastic reduction in my desire to work because this has always been all that work is about for me. I have worked to make money so that I could buy shit. I’ve never been a particularly career-driven person. I’ve tried to be. I’ve pretended to be. But the truth is that I really couldn’t give a continental about climbing the corporate ladder, or gaining recognition, or any of the things that seem to be important to my career-focused brethren.

I just want to be free. I want my time to be my own. I want to travel and see places and people I’ve never seen before. I want to watch TV shows and movies. I want to spend time with my husband, son and friends. I want to try new things, like yoga. I want to be able to sit on the couch and do nothing but knit a particularly challenging pattern. I want to experiment with making my own patterns and sewing clothes and home décor. I want to take my son to the beach. I want to lay in bed all morning reading. I want to write. For some reason I want to edit other people’s writing*. (Strangely enough, I probably want to do this more than I want to write).

I know from experience that my skill level at few, if any, of these things is likely to be good enough to display to the public, let alone generate an income. So I know that they would be seen by many as failures. I really don’t care. I want to enjoy the process, not the outcome. I want to simply revel in the creation of something, with no thought given to profitability or income generation for myself or anyone else. I want to do for the sake of doing, make for the sake of making.

The fact that I feel this way doesn’t surprise me. To me, it’s totally normal. But society doesn’t seem to agree. It would seem that if you aren’t driven by money or a desire to achieve society’s narrow preconceptions of success, there is no space for you. Basically, there seem to be three options for women who want to be considered successful:

1. Be the brass-balled career woman clawing her way up the corporate ladder. Extra points if you start your own business and make it successful. Become an expert within your industry. Get head-hunted a few times. Have clients that adore you. Join self-congratulating industry groups and societies. Make lots of money. Buy shit with it. Look amazing all of the time.
2. Be a domestic goddess Stepford wife who cooks and cleans, has amazing sex; is interesting, witty and well read. Host wonderful dinner parties. Be a mother, preferably an earth mother who is a member of the La Leche League and a strict proponent of attachment parenting. Be involved in every school activity and charity drive. Bake cakes and cookies, and cook wholesome and nutritious meals. Shows how practical and thrifty you are and prove that you’re a better wife and home maker than everyone else. Look amazing all of the time.
3. Both of the above.

I call bullshit. Surely there must be more? Something more meaningful? But in the absence of these stereotypical measures of success, I’m left wondering what I believe success to be and how I measure it for myself. Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer. What I Do know is that I no longer think that success is a big house*, luxury car and designer clothing. I also don’t think that it’s anything as trite or hackneyed as being the perfect wife and mother, and raising the perfect child. While having a home, a car and a happy child and marriage are important to me, these are not the yardsticks by which I measure my success.

(*While I don’t need a big house, I would like to have a sewing and craft room. Purely for practical reasons, you understand.)

Maybe I’m just in the wrong job. Actually, I’m pretty sure I am. The very thought of becoming some money-grubbing company’s PR lackey and contributing to the great need to increase sales within the infinite marketplace drains me of the will to live faster than an open airlock creates a vacuum. But I have no idea what to do with that, because I’m not really qualified to do anything else. I’m lucky enough to have some talent, experience, knowledge and skills under my belt that allow me to make a salary and help put food on the table. Which I need to do right now, because being a single income family just isn’t feasible at the moment. But again, where does this whole situation leave me? I suspect that the answer is “between a rock and a hard place”.

I know that I could find my passion and pursue it on a part time basis. I could study part time and gain a qualification so that I can eventually change careers. I could choose a hobby and wait to see where it goes and how it develops. But really, being a working mother, wife, homemaker, daughter-in-law, and occasional friend is quite a lot to have on my plate as it is.

I just don’t feel as though I can take the limited time that I have available for maintaining meaningful relationships, dedicate it to a hobby; and expect my loved ones to be ok with that. With working and running my home, I have so little free time that I barely see my friends and family. So it just isn’t realistic to put more on my plate. Maybe some women can manage to work, run a home and have a hobby that pursue with single-minded dedication, but apparently I’m not one of them. Besides, I need time to figure out what it is that I actually want to do. I don’t want to be tied to any one thing. I want the tasting menu, please. I want to experiment, see what I’m good at and what I enjoy. I want to wander life’s paths. This doesn’t mean I’m not going anywhere. It just means I don’t know where ‘there’ is right now.

So how do I turn my (largely) as-yet-unidentified passions into a job that can actually get me excited to wake up in the morning, without spreading myself too thin? Should I even try? If you know the answer, please share it. I’m dying to know.

Desperate times, desperate protesters

I was in tears today as I watched the TV coverage and looked at these images of today’s ANC Youth League demonstration outside Luthuli House in Johannesburg. The visuals of attacks on media, riot police, water cannons and stun grenades are so reminiscent of the very bad old days that I am filled with despair.

For some time I have been seriously concerned about the political and economic future of the country that I love. I am no politician, nor am I an economist, but as an ordinary South African citizen it is plain to me that the country is becoming increasingly divided as our “leaders” either ignore or exacerbate the problem.

It is undeniable that there are massive social problems that we need to address as a nation. If I, as a middle class and comparatively privileged South African, have reached the end of my financial and emotional tethers; how much worse must it be for the truly poor and disenfranchised? We are all the victims of the poor service delivery. We are all victims of the ever-increasing crime. And unfortunately, we can’t all move to the supposedly greener grass of “developed” nations.

So as despicable as I often find Malema and his methods, I have to concede that he does represent a large number of South Africans. As much as I may disagree with his methods, I must recognise that the problems he seeks to address are legitimate.

But Malema himself does not scare me. To my mind, he is a shrewd and greedy man who has been lucky enough to make a space for himself in a country beset by division. It is his supporters, who appear willing to engage in whatever violent  action occurs to them when the mob mentality hits, that truly frighten me. Not because of their tactics – which I think we can all agree are morally reprehensible – but because, to me, they represent a people pushed to desperation. A people pushed to the very limits of poverty. A people unheeded by their president and government representatives. These are fellow South Africans so desperate to find an enemy that they are willing to turn on the party that spawned them. And people desperate for an enemy are dangerous.

Today’s demonstrations scared me more than the countless break-ins and crime, more than the seemingly endless upward spiral in the cost of living. They scared me because of the attitudes and desperation that they highlighted. Perhaps the most frightening thing of all is that a large part of me understands. While I could never condone violence against anyone, I have a tiny inkling of how it feels to believe that things are not getting better. I know what it is like to fear that they never will. I understand the hopelessness. I get it. I too am tired of feeling like – despite my best efforts – the realities of living in South Africa are engineered to keep me financially and emotionally fragile.

Looking into the eyes of these demonstrators, I can’t help but wonder what will happen when we truly reach the end of our collective rope. There is so much rage and hate, so much fear and desperation; that I am no longer confident that we can overcome the sins of the past. Or the sins of the present.

Like oil and water, I fear that South Africa’s many factions will never mix without an enormous amount of agitation. I fear that Malema will get his revolution. Because what other option has been left to the millions of South African’s struggling to endure an insufferable situation?

Be Still, My Beating Heart

If you’ve visited this blog before, you know that my favourite blogger, The Gypsy Mama runs a challenge every Friday called ‘Five Minute Friday’. She throws out a prompt and the rest of us, “stop, drop and write for five minutes”. I think that I’m also supposed to do some fiddly things with link-backs, but I haven’t quite figured out how to do that.

 

The prompt for this week is “Still” and my contribution is dedicated to a man that I suspect I’ve been taking for granted lately…

 

Here it is:

Still.

Together.

Still together.

 

It’s been a long time that we two have been muddling through life as a couple. And I’m so glad that we’re still figuring it out together. Thank you for being so willing to figure out the way that will work best for us, for being open to forging new paths.

 

In the beginning, no-one thought that we would make it – we were too young, too different, too co-dependent, too inexperienced. And yet here we are – still together. Thank you for proving them wrong with me.

 

We’ve made it through some terrible times – infidelity, insecurity, addiction, recovery, depression, financial woes. And still we face the tough times hand in hand. Thank you for not giving up, even when I did.

 

We have shared so many firsts – our first real jobs, my first car, our first home, our first child, your first business. And there are so many firsts ahead of us. Things never get boring with you, because you’re always looking for new adventures and helping me to overcome my fear of the unknown. Thank you for making me braver (and for forcing me to use some of my tickets).

 

There have been times of absolute chaos – seven kittens and one cat in a flat, three kids in a two-bedroom house. And still the chaos gusts about us as we try to find our calm, cuddled on the couch with no need to speak. Thank you for being willing to open your heart and home to me and mine, even when all you wanted was a quiet place to rest.

 

15 years ago, I knew you were the one. I felt at peace with you. You never put any pressure on me to say or do (or be) anything other than what is true to who I am. And you instinctively understand what that is, like a romantic hero from the books that I devour (and you kind of despise).

 

In the midst of all my craziness you are still, and in your stillness I find love and serenity.

 

You are still my calm, my refuge, my strength, my sanctuary.

 

And I am still giddily, gloriously, head-over-heels in love with you.

Yesterday, today and tomorrow: Holding on to the moments

Yesterday:

I remember how chubby my son’s fingers once were. I remember counting those tiny fingers over and over again as I sat in awe of the perfect little person that I had helped create and bring into this world. I remember how toothless his grin was, and how I worried that he was so late in teething. I remember how short and chubby his legs and arms were as he first crawled and then toddled around the garden. I remember the adorable sound of his gurgles and giggles; his squeals of delight when his Dad blew raspberries on his tummy. And I remember the way he used to be content to sit snuggled in my arms, just looking at me while I stared adoringly at him.

Today:

He is a little boy. His hands and feet are bigger and show the signs of riding bikes, playing in the dirt and kung fu fighting with the dog. His arms and legs have lengthened and are now sturdy and strong – able to support him as he leaps across the couch and stretches to reach the sweets on the top shelf. They show the signs of run-ins with paved drives and tarred roads. No longer do I hear gurgles and sighs, but a constant stream of chatter and questions. And he is certainly far too busy exploring (and climbing) his world to want to sit cuddled up with Mom.

Mom and Dad are there for hugs when he is hurt or sad or scared, but most of the time he does pretty well on his own. He wants to run and climb and jump and Mom just slows him down.

Tomorrow:

He will be a bigger boy. Then he will be a teenager. Until, one day, he will be grown and I will be an old woman – proud of the man that my son has become. He will have his own child with chubby fingers and toothless grins to enjoy and wonder over.

And I will still remember the baby that he once was.