Mother’s day 2007

I miss my children.

Oh sure, I still have one at home and see another two weekly and the other one monthly, but they are adults now.  I miss the children.

I miss their little bodies full of energy and their skinny little legs running through the fields at the farm.

I miss their squeaky high little voices chattering non-stop to each other, to me, to the world in general.

 
I miss discovering otis in the fridge

I miss the happiest time of my life.  I have a memory that plays on a mobius loops in my head of intermingled days with my children spent at the wading pool at kinsmen or the beach at miquelon.  Days in the sun, with water, sand and happy playing children.  It’s always there to give me a sense of loss and longing.  Just me and my children, before I had to go back to school, before I had to go to work, before they had to go to school and daycare.

Those were the perfect gastby-esque days of youth and  warm summer.  Life didn’t hurt when we were together as one.  Just a mother and her children, the eternal human unit.  I was never happier, nor healthier, nor more confident.  I was the archetypal Earth mother, children swarming around her skirts, holding on to her as sustenance against the world.  Artists wanted me as a subject, writers, painters, musicians flocked to our table for wine and bread and esoteric discussions of imagery and synesthesia and perception.  I made my own play-dough, I made their clothes, I made life.

 
Too many birthdays and christmas and mother’s days and school pagents and baseball games and just ordinary day that I missed because I was there, holding someone’s else’s child’s life in my hands.  Balance, they say, is necessary to prevent job burn out – and mother burn out too I would say.  So often we don’t fully appreciate what we have until it is gone.  I know I learned to cope with the horrors of work in the picu by examining each family, each hurt and damaged child and discovering that they were not MY child.  By learning to let more and more things go as unimportant.  By discovering, exactly, which hill I was willing to die on as a mother.  Was an uncleaned room in and of itself important?  Was anything worth the months of conflict with a confused angst ridden 14 year old? – ask the mother of the girl who hung herself.

Did I know what I had?  partially.  When the ugliness of life intruded finally and we had to go our separate ways to school and work and hours apart we all hurt and felt abandon.  I’m sorry, I’m sorry.  I wish I could have kept you close here safe and warm in the sun by the water for longer.  But I kept you in my heart.

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