The Tides that Turn

“Grow up”

A faint cry from the next room pings her ears like the signal off a cell tower. Both feet hit the floor and she is approaching the source of the sound faster than speed dial. It does not phase her; she is focused yet in a daze from having been awoken at 2 in the morning. Instinctually she scoops up the crying infant and breast in hand offers of herself the nectar that soothes all pangs. All righteousness and holiness have been restored and once again the house returned to a peaceful state with only the sweet sound of a baby cooing. Silence then gives the brain permission to interject with conflicting thoughts of fortune and resentment, “If I can only make it past this stage, it would be so much easier.”

“Grow up”

“I need to put your clothes on” she repeats for the twenty seventh time. She began counting after about the tenth reverberation. Tantrums had become white noise like a radio buzz, but this was beginning to test her patience beyond what even her espresso could handle. One single pacifier is all it takes, and the shirt is on…finally. “Halfway there” she tries to encourage the screaming child, but this only incites more running in circles. She sits there on her knees holding the remaining diaper and pants. Though she wasn’t much for deities she bows her head and prays for some strength to carry on. She bargains, “If I can only make it past this stage, it would be so much easier.”

“Grow up”

The phone rings and she answers, “It’s about your daughter, she was caught skipping school.” The drive home seems longer than usual, she notices her knuckles have turned white and hands are numb from clenching the steering wheel. She gives her daughter a chance to explain herself. The words are like listening to a show she’s watched a hundred times with the same poor ending. And by this point, she might as well have recorded herself saying “You’re grounded”. The car comes to a halt and before she can even shift it into park her daughter is slamming the screen door. With the car still running she sits and listens to the hum of the motor as it keeps itself going. She feels like she is running on E, and she says to herself, “If I can only make it past this stage, it would be so much easier.”

“Don’t grow up”

The night is coming to a close and the wedding party has returned to their hotel rooms to get some rest before the big day. Only the bride and groom remain. She watches as he looks at her daughter with a passion that burns like ten thousand candles in a small room. He kisses her forehead and wishes her a goodnight, whispering “I love you…you are my everything.” Her daughter smiles as he walks away then turns gaze on her, when she asks to much surprise “Mom, can I sleep with you one more night like we used to?” She felt the weight pull on her heavier than it had ever pulled. She had never broken until this moment. Her heart had seemed to harden like clay in the kiln, pushed to the breaking point. She sobbed as she couldn’t recall a single moment where she wasn’t wishing for her daughter to grow up. She can finally see; the fog has cleared, and the ship is approaching its destination. Her focus had been so much on the choppy waves and overcast days that she forgotten to enjoy the journey. She embraced her daughter and begged “If I can only hold on to her for a little while longer.”

In the figurative mirror she stood, it was painful. Staring back was the reflection of the woman she had become, someone so void and miserable. 24 years spent trying to spin the hands on her watch to a time that suited her. Her motivation translated into the expectation of a child to be a “grown up” before her time, robbing her of a childhood. Wasn’t she supposed to be the “grown up” watching her child grow up? Was she too late to start? “Here take him,” her daughter says as she is handed her first born grandchild. She gazes upon the new life, untainted, a tear rolls down her cheek. It was as if time had slowed, and he could not be peeled from her arms. As if she thought she could protect him from his mother. “Mom what’s wrong?” She comes to and when she everts her gaze a room full of people are staring at her. The baby is now red as a beet and exercising his lungs to full capacity. She apologizes profusely and lays him in her daughters’ arms. But before she could pull away, she felt a hand cupping her face, “Mom look at me, you have to let me make my mistakes, that’s part of it.”

The door opened and the smell of must wafted out after being away for 2 weeks. She entered and looked around, and though everything was still the same somehow it looked different. The old furniture and the rugs suddenly came to life. She could picture her and her daughter playing with blocks on the floor and the dollhouse in the corner they had spent many hours together building. She could hear giggling and “Mommy catch me” and she opened her arms to catch her daughter, like it was yesterday. It occurred to her that just as it had smelled foul after a short time without someone to manage it, years of neglect had drained the life from her home. She grabbed an old photobook. Turning the pages one by one, reminiscing on the beautiful moments with her little girl when a note fell out from between the pages. It was pink construction paper with holes punched in the side and tiny red ribbons tied through the holes. She opened it, on the inside it read “Happy Muther Day Mommy, my mommy is best.” Underneath was a picture of the two of them holding hands. She held it to her heart and breathed a sigh of relief. She had made mistakes, there was no denying it. But in the eyes of her little girl, she was far from a failure. Most importantly she kept going and growing.