what being your mama means


{image is a photo of me kissing Katie on the cheek, Nantucket, 2012}

Oh, baby girl. You have no idea how much I needed that. You couldn’t have. Could you?

The hug when I walked in the door that you didn’t let me break.

“Not yet,” you said, “I need more.”

The, “Hurry and come back,” when I said I’d go change my clothes and say hi to your sister and the “I missed you today” before I could walk away.

And when I came back and you sat at your keyboard and your fingers wove their magic into a tapestry of sound and your beautiful, golden honey voice filled the room with barely restrained raw, perfect, hopeful energy and I joined in and together we sang, I don’t have any reasons, I’ve left them all behind … and the moment was so perfect it almost stung ..

did you know?

And then the deliciously absurd game in the den when you said, “We did this thing at camp. See, some people can sense when other people are close to them. Close your eyes and let’s see if you know where I am in the room. Tell me when I’m close to you,” and then, “Close!” and “Close!” again when I opened one eye and we laughed. Oh, how we laughed.

“Again!” you said, giggling, “Again!”

You sounded at once like the baby, the toddler, the waddling, curious preschooler of my memories, the five-year old saying, “Again, Mama, Again!” as she squealed with delight on the swings, sticky fingers on silver chains, tiny feet in tiny sandals kicking the clouds.

“Again! you said, giggling, “Again!” 

Did you know?

When you tried so hard to hold it together when I flailed my arms around searching for you in the darkness behind my closed eyes, then you bumped into the flowers on the table and we both dove under the waves of healing laughter – could you have known?

When you looked up at me, those beautiful hazel eyes pulling me like magnets / sirens / gravity toward your core and you said, “I love you, Mama.”

Could you have known?

Could you possibly have known just how much I needed to laugh, to feel, to break, to heal, to BE YOUR MAMA in all the light and color and sound of what being your mama means in that exact moment in time?

Could you have known?

I know you didn’t.

I know you did.

And I am so grateful to be your mama.

2 thoughts on “what being your mama means

  1. Thank you so much for being here… in this lifetime… in this now moment. I can’t ever express to you how beautiful I know your soul to be. Through you, I learn that I’m ok. My daughter is ok. We aren’t perfect, but we’re amazing. And together? We are unstoppable.

    My daughter isn’t autistic. She’s human. The same as you and your beautiful family. She was 9 weeks early and weighed in at a whopping 3 pounds 5 ounces. I stayed with her father for a year and then left because I knew that I would rather raise her alone than have her deal with his temper. It’s been the hardest thing I’ve ever done. She’s 14 now and as I read your Diary and your Dad’s speeches, I’ve laughed and cried and thanked God so many times for you and the human journey that you lead us all on.

    Thank you for sharing.

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