Life Right Now

I’ve called Colorado home for fourteen years. There’s something about making new memories in the same places that holds old memories, something sweet that also makes me feel my age.

A few days ago, Rob and I went hiking on a trail I’ve been on at least 100 times, with so many different people at different stages of my life. I’ve been there a lot, yes, but never once alone. Hiking is always something I do with someone else, and it’s always a time of meaningful conversation, which is probably why I remember it all.

I hiked that trail with my dad in high school and talked through numerous faith crises. I hiked that trail with Rob when we were dating and falling in love. I hiked that trail two days after getting out of the mental hospital, each step one towards healing. I hiked that trail pregnant with my first baby. I imagine myself there with teenage Auden and George behind me, maybe telling me about their own faith crises. 

Breaking News! My Children Do Not Eat Vegetables

I have a fuzzy memory from when I was about 23 or so, sitting at a breakfast restaurant, eyeing the table next to me where a family of five was trying to eat together. There was the mom and dad, of course, and three unruly toddlers. I still remember the misplaced disdain that washed through me as I watched the scene unfold. Mom and Dad were desperately trying to get their kids to eat something—pancakes?—and the kiddos were making a giant mess of syrup and spilled milk. I sat at my own quiet table, full of haughty pride, thinking, “My children will never be like that. Surely not.”

This is me, right now, eating my humble pie.

Present

The sun is setting slowly, sinking into the clouds that look like they are sitting right on top of the green blue of the Caribbean.

I take a sip of my wine and watch mostly-old couples stroll hand in hand on the beach. Most of the guests at the resort have gussied up for the evening full of dinner reservations, just as I have.

What love looks like (for me, right now)

“Mommy, talk me,” Auden says from the backseat. “Talk me, Mommy.”

I hit pause on my podcast for the third time and look in the rearview mirror to the backseat where my almost-three year old begs for my attention. Driving used to be my quiet time. Key word: used.

 “Talk me!” He says again.

He means that he wants me to make conversation with him to pass the time, to answer his questions—the questions I’ve of course already answered.

Anger Out Loud

I go from mother to monster in just two seconds.

“Stop that!!!” The words spill from my mouth in an animal-like growl, too loud and too ferocious to ignore.

My almost three-year-old looks at me, stunned, and tears immediately crowd the corners of his eyes.

But it’s too late. Words keep spilling from me, just a few more shouts. “I SAID STOP THREE TIMES ALREADY!”

“Okay Mommy,” he whimpers, his lower lip actually trembling.

Immediately regret slams into my chest. Shame quickly follows, settling right there by my lungs, ready to stay with me for the rest of the day.

“I’m sorry for yelling,” I say right away. “Mama shouldn’t have yelled. I’m sorry.”

I can see from the look on his face that the damage is done, that there’s no going back, that there’s no rewinding time. I give him a hug, pat his back, apologize again.