I stood on the football field, a smattering of teenage adrenaline and body odor circling my watery eyes. My son had just finished his first season of high school football, defeating their cross town rival in the last game. All of us parents made our way down to the field, greedy for a photo opportunity that couldn’t be refused with our pimply, sweaty boys. Of course my son still tried to escape my shutter happy finger but I chased him down anyway in a shameless, flip flop sprint, shouting his name with the desperation only a Mama can cull for she knows to ferociously grasp this moment before it slips too suddenly to that thief named Time who never gets caught despite such dirty antics. Because sure enough, there that thief sat on my shoulder as I watched my son disappear down the corridor with his teammates, laughter echoing then quieting, and into my ear he whispered: one season down. Only three to go.
The days are long, they said. The years are short, they promised.
How true this promise felt in young motherhood where each day felt like a rinse and repeat of the one before. But standing under the dimming lights of a high school scoreboard, I grew resentful of this outrageous promise that nobody told you came with an expiration date. My days are now mercilessly ripped off the calendar and tossed aside into a blurry pile of practices and schoolwork and first dates and driver’s licenses and hormones and in the center of it all me, a mother, once young, now seasoned, standing in the eye of the hurricane as it swirls without my consent. Where are my long days, I scream into the storm. Take me back to a long day! Take me back to a day where the clock ticked molasses and two toddlers sat on my hips with little words on their little lips: What are we going to do today, Mama?
Those early days so long with the weight of monotony that this young mother would fantasize of teenagers slamming doors in her face, demanding she leave them alone. The weight of days with mornings so early that six am felt late as a paddling three year old terrorist would poke me awake with demands and negotiations. The weight of days where I felt so grateful to be able to stay home with my kids while simultaneously drowning in it’s loneliness. The weight of days where the three of us watched as Daddy drove away and we were left, two of us in diapers and one of us the bearer of every giggle or gaggle, the singular witness of tantrums and traumas and tears. The lucky sole recipient of snotty kisses and tiny bear hugs. For better and for worse, I never missed a single thing.
What a cruel twist of fate parenthood is. To spend so many long days dreaming of life outside constant mothering while all the while that mischievous thief assumes his position and does his deed. He takes each discarded day and crumples them into neat little balls before tossing them aside for me to wade through years later as I search desperately for the small faces and tiny voices of my children. The pile grows tall and thick and I sit in the middle of it as I watch my son sprint down the football field and dream of college. I sit in the middle of it as my daughter’s legs grow longer than mine as she morphs from girl to woman. I sit in the middle of this pile of days, my hands clenched around such carelessly discarded crumpled days, and I wish so very badly to open one and slip back into that day, even for just a moment.
Slip back into a day so drenched in California perfection, it lulls us down to the beach, this Mama a pack mule with enough snacks and drinks and toys to occupy us for hours. I brush sand off pb&j’s, chase you with spraying sunscreen and hold you close as waves crash over us until we grow water weary and collapse for a few minutes, the sun warming our slick, wrinkly bodies as we all lie on the towel together, each one of my hips a home for one wet head, the tangled hair of my children indistinguishable. My eyelids grow heavy but then a head pops up and you ask for another round in the waves, another dig for sand crabs. Come on, Mama! you say and we shake the dry sand off our bodies and run back toward the glistening Pacific, sparkling with promise. Do we have to go home, you ask? And this time as I un-crumple this day to slip into it again, I say no. We don’t. Let’s stay a little longer and watch the sky turn from blue to pink to purple. Let’s stay until the only light to lead us home is from the moon. Let’s stay forever. Stay with me here forever.
We’re not told how to grieve for the small children we leave behind as they grow into young adults. We’re not told how their pint sized faces will haunt each room and the pencil marks on the doorframe will mock our memories. We’re not told how our love grows and shifts and morphs as our children get further away from childhood and how our hearts will ache with bittersweet longing as they edge into adulthood. It’s silly, isn’t it, to miss something, someone, you still have? But this is why we sprint across fields or stages or lawns in questionable footwear, shouting out your name because we understand that this moment comes but once. I understand that yesterday I was Mama, today I am Mom and tomorrow you’ll be gone into a life of your own creation. A life I can’t wait to watch unfold even as I mourn the childhood you left behind, it’s echos forever ringing in my ears.
But tomorrow has not yet come. It is still today. It is always today. See? that pesky thief whispers into my ear. You still have time.
Now go get that photo.
