There was a time when weekends commenced promptly at 5:30 AM, with my little one literally trying to pry my eyelids open while exclaiming, “Mama wake up! The sun is up!”
I’d try to roll over and seek out the bliss of my dreams. Dreams in which I was laughing with friends, being kissed and kissing back, or even blessedly… enjoying time alone in a quiet house.
I write this at 11AM as my daughter reads upstairs and I sip my coffee. Blessedly alone in a quiet house.
Looking back, I’m oh so grateful for those small hands stroking my hair. For the dimpled arms wrapping around my middle. For her mispronounced words of love at a time when our worlds were as intertwined and magical as a spider’s web. A time when my sense of self (as anything other than a mama) felt as fragile as an individual thread of silk.
My dreams from those days have come true. And my life has expanded beyond mothering and all that it requires. Now I dream again of the simplicity of a toddler crawling into bed with her mama. Her little whispers and sweaty palms held in mine.
The web we’d woven as she grew inside me loosened with each new step away from me, each first day of school and every other one of the countless milestones that required us to release. And yet, the web hasn’t broken.
Even as she reads upstairs, I know that one side of that thread is wound between her fingers. The other end rests in mine.
It gets better mamas. It gets different. Weave that thread now so that it’s strong enough to last.