I have my Papa's eyes

What I'm listening to: Duet by Rachael Yamagata and Ray Lamontagne 

I have my Papa's eyes
My Papa's eyes live on in me, my sister, my father,
my son and my daughter.
I wear them with pride, my favorite part of me
I wink and peek and peer into the mirror 
And see his eyes wink back at me,
That mischievous smile he wore 
When he teased me 
"I am going to hang you by your ears!"
I giggle and picture my ears all stretched out,
hung by clothespins
on my grandmother's line,
alongside the white sheets and beach towels
breezy and billowing
and smelling warm like sunshine.

I have my Papa's eyes
and every sunrise I see reminds me of him.
"Can we watch the sunrise together, Papa?"
He gently wakes me while it is still dark.
He makes orange smoothies,
juice and berries and vanilla ice cream,
a perfect breakfast
in a color that matches the spilled creamsicle of the sun.
We set beach chairs side by side on his green lawn,
the cool morning-misty air kisses our skin,
we are met by his nodding flowers,
those that he so lovingly grew,
red and purple and white and blue.

I have my Papa's eyes, but I wish I had his thumbs as well.
They were green and from them, miracles sprouted
splashing color and painting life
onto his plain dirt patch in the suburbs.
He introduces us, 
teaches me each name,
crushes delicate petals under fingertips
and beckons me to breathe in the scent
of rosemary, sage, mint,
aloe, rose, petunias, and honeysuckle sweet.
Don't step in the ivy,
for it is there that the snakes find their hiding places.
We eat Chinese plums from the tree with wide, stiff leaves and he says
here, let's plant this one.
Put it in the ground and see what will happen.
So I pick a spot in the sun
right next to the clothesline with the billowing sheets.
He made me believe in the miracles I hold in my own hands.
It is my tree, and it grows,
its branches splayed.
It is stout and wide,
with a perfect branch for sitting
and perfect plums for eating
under the blinding summer sun.
While eyes are inherited, maybe green thumbs are not,
but someday I hope to whisper to the heavens,
see Papa? I have made my own garden,
with the miracles in my hands,
and it was inspired by you 
and your love for all things
that grow and blossom
and shade and heal
and offer beauty to the world

He asked me to sing him a song,
and when I sang
he lifted his hands toward heaven and closed his eyes
and cried.
I'll never forget.
It was a song I'd sung a hundred times before
and a hundred times since
but it will always mean something different to me now, forever.
How great is our God
who created my Papa's gentle gray eyes,
his strong hands and miracle thumbs,
his deep caramel skin, his creativity and his wit,
his Spanish tongue and playful smile,
and the legacy he left,
as a man who saw an angel and believed
that he was created for better things.

in-between

What I'm listening to: Stable Song by Gregory Alan Isokov

I don't need to tell you that the older you get, the faster the years go by. I am left breathless by them, all at once dazzled and frightened by time. The other day Austen said, "I can't wait until Wilder can crawl!" and I replied, "But we don't want to wish away the time we have now, because he'll never be this little again. Just like we'll never hold tiny, 6-pound Wilder again, we'll never again have a chance to enjoy him as a little 3-month-old who needs to be carried everywhere and can't roll over or crawl yet. He'll never be this small again!" I could see the recognition of that truth in her eyes. (Just a few days later, he started rolling over like a pro.)

So it's with this lens that I've been perceiving our days lately. Knowing that in a blink (one blink is approximately ten years - I know this because I have had a 10-year-old and will have another by the years' end, so I am an expert at blinks) I will have two adult children. I remember when my sister Sky was a baby, I would take the ten years between us and come up with a timeline in my head, complete with little embellishments: someday I'll be 22 and Sky will be 12 - maybe I'll be a mommy. We will go shopping together and I'll help her do her hair. And just like that, it happened. In a single blink.

At times I consider Charlotte Mason's words that children are born "whole persons," and I wonder at the little humans my babies are, the memories they will hold someday as adults. I know I feel the same as I did as a child, some of my memories feeling existing as vividly as what I wore yesterday, or just as significant as how I feel presently, which is hungry at 3:10 pm on a Sunday afternoon while my big kids play video games and the tiny one sleeps beside me. Will I remember this moment ten years in the future? Will my babies? How will they judge me as a parent when they have had the life experience and analytical skills to do so? At what point will I shift in their minds from "best mama ever" to "she could have done better"? 

Sometimes I think about the moments I value now and compare them to the moments I cherish from my early years as a mother, and that helps to ground myself when I'm feeling as though I'm floundering through motherhood. Often, it is not what I think is so important at the present time, but those little in-between moments that end up being the ones I'd most love to preserve. I believe it's those moments that affect my children the most, as well. After all, aren't most of our beloved memories from childhood the seemingly mundane ones? The afternoons exploring grandma's backyard, cuddling up to Mom in the bentwood rocking hair, sunrises and orange juice smoothies with grandpa. And so, how I wrap our mundane moments, whether in harried stress or gentle grace, will determine the value of my children's lasting memories.

I asked River to take a picture of me and Wilder this morning. I take a lot of selfies with the baby, mostly as proof of how small he is in my arms, but there's a quiet magic that's lost in the eye contact, the awareness of when the picture is taken, and the outstretched arm at the edge of the frame. I want a record of how we spend the in-between moments, curled up together, with me either trying to memorize his baby smell or trying to let him know the depth of my love by the number of kisses I place on his silky head.

We are inspired to make our days magical by the likes of Pinterest and Instagram, but what a big undertaking! Sometimes the demands are too much. But what if the magic lies in-between moments, rather than the curated ones? It it these I will remind myself to appreciate today. They are valuable and full of potential. They will never be big and sparkly... rather, they are quiet, unassuming, and sometimes magical.