in our living room we have two pictures of me. one is of me dancing, at the height of my skills and peak physical condition. the other is a nude, somewhat abstract, not posed or choreographed. both pictures were taken the same day.
the first time ella ever commented on them, she was sitting in my lap just beside the pictures. she said in a surprised voice, as if she had just noticed, "hey, that's you, mama!". she stood up to take a closer look. she pointed to the picture of me dancing and said, "that mama is gone now." and looking at the other picture she said, "but that mama is still here."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the day before ella was born, my greatest concern about motherhood was that it meant letting go of "me" and going on to become "mama", and i wasn't sure i was ready to do it. i didn't want to lose the person i had worked so hard to become, and i didn't want to disappear into the person i thought i would have to be in order to be a good mother.
the day after ella was born, "me" and "mama" were the same person.
that was my first lesson in letting go.
little did i realize it at the time but a mother is expected to start letting go more or less from the start. within hours of holding ella in my arms for the very first time, i was expected to just hand her over to anybody who walked into the room, friend or family or stranger, anybody who demanded "a turn"--and was scolded for being reluctant to do so. and thus was i introduced to another lesson in letting go, the lesson in which you are forced to do it before you are ready. the lesson in which others decide whether you know what is best for you or your child.
as time goes on, i meet more lessons and they come more quickly and in greater number, but each time, the lesson seems to always be the same: mama, you are too close to the situation to know what is best.
in some sense, this might be true, but the person i was before i was "mama" is still inside and what she tells me is this: cling while you can. the next moment isn't promised to anybody and even if it comes, what it brings is not in your control. this could be the very last time my child will climb in my lap and ask me to rock her like a baby--i'm not going to miss out on that. because even if this isn't the last time, i know the last time is coming, eventually--and i am NOT going to miss out on it.
so here i stand on the very last day my baby will ever be the magic number 3, and again i face another lesson. this child, my dear little child, needs to me be excited that she is turning 4, and i am not ready to do it. 3 was the year when ella learned to spell her name--the year when she learned to ride a scooter--the year when my 3-year-old ella sat calmly beside her beloved dog sheen, gently spoon-feeding her drops of water and wiping her mouth and chin, speaking quiet words of comfort between the seizures that consumed sheen on her last day of life.
wow. how do you let go of that?
and then i realize--i've already done this lesson. this day last year, ella couldn't play hopscotch, she didn't know the words to "jesus loves me", she had never been fishing. and this day last year i was wondering how i was going to be excited for my dear little child when she turned 3.
the lesson a mama really needs is not that she shouldn't cling to all the little things she holds so dear. it's that this moment, this day, this year must end, so that the next one may come and bring new magic.
so here's to the magic number 4, angel baby. i think i'm ready now.
