The Year That Holds Everything

A year of anticipation in motherhood told in three parts.

I.

I have just realized that November is my favorite month of the year. 

Here in Michigan, the best of the fall foliage happens in early November. The hiking paths and neighborhood blocks are aflame with orange, yellow, and red. The wind whips through the branches until suddenly, in the middle of the month, the trees give a single shudder and collectively let everything go. Our world becomes bare, honest. And there is a gathering anticipation. 

Like slipping off your bathrobe while the steam gathers behind the shower curtain. Your skin is waiting for that first drop of warmth. 

Like peeling off your day-worn clothes and replacing them with clean pajamas. Your bed is calling for you, ready to envelope your tired body in rest.  

So it is with the trees and ground and sky in November. All seem to hold their breath in that same anticipation, as if the whole landscape is preparing for a long exhale. 

And exactly one year ago, in this month of release and renewal, I was making preparations of my own. I gave birth to our daughter as the season swelled around me. Recalling her welcoming in this month, I see it now: November, you are unadorned and sacred. 

II.

How many hours has it been since she’s eaten? When did you last change her diaper? No, she can’t nap longer than five or she won’t go down tonight. There’s a rash on her cheek again from teething, we’ll need more vaseline. What’s the weather like, can you make sure she’s wearing mittens? Did you buy the dye-free Motrin? 

A year of learning and relearning, checking and double checking, and anticipating each need to keep a small human alive and healthy; we are constantly alert. A blanket too close to her face was our biggest nemesis. Now a leaf in her hand is a sudden danger.

But here she is: she lifts her head, she rolls onto her back, she sits up. A progression that we have witnessed over the span of months and months; each movement sparking magic into our lives that we never knew was earth-side. Like waving a wand, the clock hand conjures her great growing. We watch with mouths open as she says “mama,” as her teeth cut through her gums, as she stands up -- determined and wobbly -- on her little feet. 

How did I live for thirty-eight years and not know this kind of alchemy? How did I breathe on a planet so flat and ordinary before she arrived? No longer can I live in this world as I used to. She has changed everything.

III.

Early morning hour, I am tired as the sun rises. She is busy with her books. Crawling over to her book basket, she pulls herself up just enough to peer over the rim. I watch, knowing what will come next. She wobbles upward, and then promptly, sits down hard. I pretend I don’t see, but her tears come anyway. She cries and looks to me, her face burning red.

I take a deep breath in and get up. I go to my daughter who is crying and scoop her warm, shaking body into my arms, kiss her wet cheeks. Because I can.

I am washing the dishes at the sink. There’s a spot of burnt oatmeal that won’t leave the pan. I feel a gentle tug, tug, tug. I know what this is. I look down to see her smiling face, bright and expectant. She buries herself in the cloth of my pants, grips my legs tightly. 

I sigh and put the dish down. I wipe my hands on my sweater. None of this is convenient or even necessary. But I bend down and pick up my baby, spin her around and around as she squeals. Because I can.

Mid-afternoon arrives and I sit down for my first meal. It’s been a hard morning of teething and growing pains with no sleep for Eden. She is distracted by her tiger and so I bring my steaming bowl over for a first bite. And that brings her over, crawling as fast as she can, pulling herself up on my knees. 

I smile to myself. Mom eats last, again. I blow on a spoonful and she opens her little mouth, anticipating the love I will show her. I give her a taste. Because I can.

---