Yesterday, I had one of those good mom days.
I felt accomplished, as I took care of both my kids, alone, for the entire day.
I took them on a playdate and it was great. The little one napped. We all got ice cream. I even ran errands.
With them. Outnumbered.
On the car ride home from the last leg of our afternoon outing, my daughter and I chatted.
We talked about a lot of things, and it was like having the conversation with a real person. It was awesome.
At one point we got onto the subject of babies, as a very close friend of mine (of ours) just had a baby boy, and so it has been a hot topic around the house.
(Remind me to tell you about my daughter’s obsession with maternity pants, but that’s another story for another day.)
I asked her, lightheartedly, if she would still want to use the same name that we had talked about for another baby, if we were to have one (also another story).
“I am not sure,” she started.
“Mom. I know that I said that I didn’t want us to have another baby, but if there was a baby who needed a home and the baby had a mommy or daddy who couldn’t take care of it, then I would want us to have it. We could take care of it and I would be OK with that.”
I didn’t want to give this idea too much momentum (despite my brimming pride and understanding), so I replied, coolly, with, “That’s very kind. So, you just mean that you don’t want another baby to come from my body?”
“You already have your fruit, mom.”
“What?” I asked her. I didn’t get what she meant, at first,
though somewhere, deep inside, I think I did; I think I was just incredulous; awed.
“You are a tree, mommy. You made two pieces of fruit. Me and my brother. And that is the fruit that your tree is supposed to make.”
And just like that, I started to sob.
And it wasn’t because I was sad, it was because I was moved.
And, amazingly, I did not have to tell her that.
“I know that you are crying happy, mama,” and she smiled at me as I turned my head around to her while stopped at a red light.
Sometimes, I look at my two children, and I feel completely—well—complete.
I know that our family is exactly as it should be and I feel so blessed for the two angels that I have the pleasure of calling ours.
And other times, it still hurts.
But moments like that conversation in the car help me to cope, and to really believe in the former.
My daughter is extraordinary. Her empathy astounds me.
My son is remarkable. His strength humbles me.
And I get to say that they came from my tree.
They are the sweetest pieces of fruit that I could ever imagine.
I am a tree.
Some days I feel pretty, with colorful leaves. Some days I provide shade or comfort. Some days I look worn, bare and feel cold and frail.
But I am a tree, still standing, strong and mighty, with deep roots, growing taller as I go.
I am a tree.
The luckiest tree of all.
This post is dedicated to the new baby who has been added to our tribe (and whom I just got to meet);
and his to mother, who reminds me, by example, to stay tall and strong.
Welcome to this world, sweet boy. You are so lucky to have the best tree imaginable.
(Featured image via)