The quiet magic of motherhood.featured

Far too often I condense motherhood into the milestones. The planned events and memories I try to create and craft. But when I think about my own childhood, almost none of these come to mind. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the memories that have etched themselves most deeply into my heart are ones my mom doesn’t recall.

They are ordinary moments. Ones that likely happened thousands of times throughout my childhood. Whether it was the way the light filled the room or the gentle voice when I expected and deserved the stern one, these particular moments appear most vividly in my mind. These simple tasks, done faithfully day after day, taught me that I am loved. Uniquely and intimately.

I love being a mom. I love carrying on the tradition of wildly imperfect, striving women. Learning and relearning how to love each little soul in my care. Remembering that my own uniqueness is not a hindrance but an essential part of our relationship. A relationship, like any, that is forged in the little moments and choices of each day.

I want to relish and cultivate these sparks of magic in our everyday. To etch them deeply into my heart.

I want to feel the weight of my babies on my lap. To see them snuggle into the soft, familiar curves of my body sculpted just for them. To rub their back and shoulders and forehead in the way I’ve practiced since their birth. Tested and perfected to comfort each one of them in their own unique way.

I want to watch them drift to sleep on my chest. To-do lists cast aside for precious moments of quiet. Remembering the hum of my mom’s voice and the beat of her heart conducting a quiet symphony only we could hear. The smell of her face cream my most delightful perfume.

Wondering which parts of me will penetrate my children’s senses and tuck themselves deep into their memory.

I want to lay little ones down to nap. To calm them with a favorite book and tuck them carefully into the cool darkness. Giving their growing brains time to rest in the quiet. I want to delight in their perfect pink cheeks and the sleep still hovering in their eyes when they wake up.

I want to brush hair from hot faces and watch the hurt of a skinned knee and the frustration of sweltering heat evaporate under my touch. To slather sunscreen on rosy cheeks as I count each sun-kissed freckle. Tracing the constellations summer draws on tiny faces and arms.

I want to give them the weight of an extra blanket as the nights cool. To preserve the leaves they carefully collect and let the beauty they find brighten our home. To let our wanderings lengthen as they explore the changing seasons.

I want to dim the lights as evening lengthens. Twinkle lights and candles filling every corner of our home to warm the darkness. To remember arriving home late and the contented sigh and little-girl exclamation, “our home feels like Christmas!” as the most pure and perfect compliment I’ve received.

I want to read the familiar words as the ornaments are hung. Telling the stories passed from generation to generation. Sacred tradition repeated each year to teach them the story of our faith. Of our family. Inviting them to participate and slowly learn so they can one day carry it to their own children.

I want to bundle them tightly in cozy, dry clothes and take them outside in the magical cold for a wintry adventure. Pants and gloves and hat tucked just so to hold the warmth against any wind. I want to see the delight on their faces as they toss the sparkling snow against the crisp blue sky.

I want to unravel the tangle of wet boots and straps and layers and hang them to dry. To serve bowls of hot soup with crisp, buttery toast. To warm frozen cheeks and fingers and toes. To put them in a hot bath and wrap them in a warm blanket. Snuggle together with a good book, surrounded by the warmth only time in the cold can produce.

I want to catch their eye in the middle of a party and share a wink. Watch shyness fade into the delight of being intimately known and cared for. I want to giggle at lines from our favorite books. Recited so often they become our own secret language. I want to watch them roll their eyes when I cry at a favorite part of a movie, but insist on pausing it when I’m gone so I won’t miss it.

I want to pour my attention and love into the tiniest moments, knowing that each one may be the spark in their soul, the groove in their memory, that shows them and reminds them, again and again, that they are loved. Uniquely and intimately.