As I walk up to my bedroom each evening, I am greeted by these:
And I always stop and look at each one. Always. Every night.
Because I don’t want to forget.
It’s probably as a result of some unresolved childhood trauma (that whole Fleeing-the-Communist-Homeland thing, but that’s not important right now).
I remember that she liked for me to hold her hand tightly. Even when she knew how to walk, she still kept a tight hold on my hand for security. She just wanted to be sure of me.
He was a big ol’ galoot. I used to call him that. He was large and extraordinarily strong as a toddler. And yet, he always wanted to be held, so of course, I held him. There was never a moment’s hesitation on my part. I laugh to myself when I notice that he wears out his shoes in the very same places – that big crease in the toe box.
She was always the creative, independent one. She made her point by holding only one finger of mine. She didn’t need me that much, but she needed me “some.”
Here’s my dragger/crawler/walker. He was just adorable. But he always did things unconventionally. The end of the toe is scuffed because he dragged that foot around. It was his way.
I force myself to enjoy this ritual every night. To stop and to remember. And to muse about how much they’ve changed and how much they’ve stayed the same. I think it’s a good thing.
It’s good to remember. And it gives me cause to pray for their futures.
Life was hard and now I have these amazing people in it. I will not ever take the blessings in my life for granted.
I sometimes wonder if their lives have been well served by my own. To rephrase: Can these four survive being raised by a loony, over-protective, party-throwing, blogger of a meanest-mom-in-the-whole-wide-world? Yes, but can they THRIVE?
Then I look at those shoes in the shadow boxes and I think: we’ve come so far. Surely we’ve got what it takes if we just keep moving forward.
That’s it. Move forward. Baby steps.
(previously posted in another form on MBFCF)