Look At Her Tiny Feet

A lesson on living in the moment

Monday has come, yet again. The family is off for Labor Day weekend.

We are lounging around the house.

Mommy goes to work out and brings home broccoli, red onion, and cheddar cheese to make a salad.

The little girl steps up onto her stool to help. She examines each floret with her own curiosity before placing them back into the bowl.

They sprinkle the greens with diced red onion, chopped bacon, and shredded cheddar. She asks for a few shreds of cheese in a cup to graze on. They drizzle the salad with dressing and place it in the fridge.

Mommy asks her, does she want to go on a walk?

She does, and they take a leisurely stroll, just the two of them and a rusty red third-hand bike that squeaks with each turn of the wheel. The little girl doesn’t seem to mind though. She places a turquoise bow in her hair, picks out a purple outfit, and hops right on. She looks on as the neighbors wrestle with vinery yard work. She begins chattering, naming to herself the various family members that she has.

They return home and Mommy asks her if she wants to go swing on the bench in the backyard. She does, and after they park her bike in the garage, she laments that it’s “hah…” (hot) and plants her feet in place to be picked up. Mommy decides, no, she can walk to the swing. She needs to know she can do it. She tells her such and begins a slow stroll into the green grass. The little girl quietly begins to follow, but deviates to her own, winding path of exploring the land. She walks amongst the trees and examines the fallen twigs from the recent storm that has passed.

They make it to the swing together and Mommy hoists the little girl onto the bench. She stands for a moment, practicing her balance, before settling into the right corner, her corner. She holds the arm rest on one side and her mother’s hand on the other. Mommy gains traction against the earth with her feet and sends them into a swing. As they ride, feeling the gently changing wind into fall, Mommy looks at her little girl. She notices already the change to her cheeks, her eyes, the length of her hair. She feels such joy as she watches the little girl giggle with delight at the whooshes and animal noises they make. Mommy looks at her daughter’s feet. The ones that barely reach past the edge of the bench. She tells her we can talk out here. If you need to talk, this is a really good spot to do it, and I’ll listen.

Mommy then wonders how many times they might get to talk before the little girl’s feet reach the dirt, too. Until she can help with the swinging, bringing her legs front and back, front and back. What will happen in their lives between now and then? How many mistakes will they talk through, how many quiet listens will be had? How many heartbreaks and joys and laughs? How many close calls? How many?

She looks back at the home they share. She takes a few pictures of the little girl that she so desperately wants to hold on to, the one who is changing before her very eyes into a new version of herself. And Mommy decides she is going to then put the phone down, and continue pushing off of the earth to swing with her little girl until the moment has passed them by.

Later that same week, the realities of routine set in. Mommy is recovering from a virus and feeling the weakness permeate throughout her body. She just needs to get the children’s bags in the car and their bodies in the seats. But the weight of even that seemingly small task feels so very heavy in that moment. Exhaustion peaks. The dark thoughts invade. Is every day going to be this hard?

Mommy and the kids make it on the road. Like clockwork, the two oldest start the arguments. She laments because she doesn’t know how to fix it, nor if she should, and she’s too tired and too late to search for a podcast that will hint her the answer. Once they drop the eldest child off, she knows it will abate. She tells herself, “Hold on.” One of the many moments of parenting where one prays to be “saved by the bell” of time.

Soon, it’s the two younger ones left. She is exhausted and her stomach is churning in residual charm from the latest gastrointestinal symptoms. A surprising, kind sound is then heard. The five year old gives the toddler the red and white toy airplane she has been yearning for. The one he is bringing to show and tell today.

One of the sweetest joys of Mommy’s life is listening to a five year old perform the delicate speaking tones that one uses to talk to a two year old.

“You can have it, mmmmkay? But don’t break it because Bubba needs it for show and tell, mmmmkay?”

And she responds with appreciation:

“Ooookay!”

Mommy sits in the front seat during this exchange and thinks of how many of these adorable, tiny exchanges happen but we are distracted and worried, and so they pass us by untouched. She makes a silent vow to record what she can remember as soon as she finds a keyboard, and even though she knows she is missing certain details that parents of young children yearn to get back once their kids have grown, she also finds comfort that these delicate little stories of wonderment were not entirely lost in the abyss of these early days.

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