making time

Approaching the luminescent tunnel, I falter at the entrance. The darkness. The light. The vulnerability. The close presence of the body next to me. I watch the tunnel lapse into darkness, as the far end gently radiates traceable evidence of light. The glow pulses, in matching heartbeat, growing larger, brighter. Waves of single inconsequential bulbs twinkling, undulating in mass toward the two of us. Inviting us to its experience. I step onto the conveyor walkway and begin my naturally brazen stride. A hand discretely grasps mine, stopping my feet. And I stand. Corrected. Coerced, to simply slow down and give myself to the breaking light.

For six years, this person has been woven into my fast paced life. Seen but unseen. Loved for what they are, not who. A constant apparition bending to the will of others in sacrifice of itself. A juxtaposition of a being craving to reveal itself, all while living suppressed until the most impactful moments. Today, he has pulled back a glorious section of his shade.

His hand is wrapped in mine, as we glide with the crawling belt. Part of me is screaming, for the leisure of traveling two miles per hour, surrounded by twinkling light, feels perverse. Wasteful.

Malcolm planned our first trip in solitude to the Smithsonian Natural History Museum ending at the National Art Gallery. At each exhibit, I wrestled with my natural inclination for speed in order hit every display, but he was there to quiet me. And in quiet I remained, while he jabbered on, on revealing hidden gems of himself and restricting us to the only interesting sections of the museums: rocks, bugs, and Van Gogh. He forced me to pause, and not only glance at, but find the camouflaged bugs, note their coloring and later compare them to an artist’s shadings at the art gallery. It was this hidden little man, who stopped at each exhibit, read, inquired, supposed, listened, and saw the beauty and value that forced me to ask myself: Have I become so callous, that I am missing the beauty? Why so fast?

Time is such a precious commodity when you are a parent. Time for activities. Time for homework. Time for dinner. Time for school. Time for work. Time to workout. Time for lust. Time for quiet. Time to clean. Time to potty train. Time to correct. Time for Kid 1, 2, or 3. There used to be so much time… to just contemplate. Where has all that time gone? And why I am forcing others to relinquish their precious time?

On our sixth ride through the tunnel of light, I look down at our intertwined fingers, a rare and extraordinary gesture from my middle son. Rubbing my thumb on the back of his hand, calm and fulfilled, it hits me. I yell at Malcolm on the daily to hurry up, come on, not now, because I am just trying to get to the next thing on the list, and his poignant, meandering thoughtfulness gets squashed in my wake. I must take the time, to go slow with him, for time is all he wants.

And why not slow down to see the world like him? For it truly is, that much more beautiful.

Pealing into the drop off zone, my heart speeding faster than the spinning wheels, my eyes scanned for Wheels. Surging to stop outside the Swim Center, my foot hit the ground the same second I threw the car in park. The headlights flooded the steamed glass windows, making in difficult to see his little body posted up in a typical metal chair to the side of the receptionist. But even through the denseness of the fog, I could see his shoulders heaving uncontrollably and his head down on the round gray table, face covered, pressed in his hands.

Publicly broken.

My hand reached for the cold handle and I paused a millisecond to prepare. This was about to get worse.

Swinging open, my face was slammed with the stickiness of the pool, just harsh enough to scold, as the receptionist’s eyes met mine and flicked to Wheels, deepening my humiliation.

“Sweetie? Honey? I am here,” croaked from my lips.

“OH MOMMY!” he screamed in a truly scared, childish tone not utilized since entering school. He didn’t jump up, crushing me. But slowly rose from his chair, took two steps forward and stopped. His face was blotched pink and red, but his eyes were dark from rubbing. I put my hand on his shoulder and whispered “I’m sorry baby.”

And with those words, his fearful wound burst exposing the rawness of emotions. He wrapped his arms tight and low around my waist. Squeezing, as the fresh tears streaked his pale skin, eroding the previous red evidence of pain and depositing new. I just held him as people passed, staring, judging, while he sobbed. Loudly mind you, Wheels is always all in, all the time. Especially when hurting. Something to watch.

And then he said it. In between heaving sobs at midlevel roar, “Mommy? Mommy, how could you forget me? I was so scared. How could you forget me?”

The weight of his arms around my waist shrunk my soul. Holding my ground, yet still lessened. My smallness was noted by him, the people witnessing, myself. I could only think of one thing to do. I buried my nose into his soft, blonde hair and breathed him in. An action I did everyday when he was an infant, toddler even, to escape my tiredness or fearfulness of screwing him up. I breathed him in, to be reminded of his preciousness and escape the week.

All week, I had fallen into isolation. I spent the week void of other adult contact. I spent the week running for others, planning for others, playing for others, cooking for others, cleaning for others. I spent the week making promises to myself, for myself, and breaking them for others. I spent the week so consumed with whats next, I woke each morning around 3 AM, restless. And by midweek, if I had a moment, I did nothing but stare out my front window and watch the cars go by. Curious as to where they were going so quickly, so importantly. Did they see me as they passed? I didn’t really see them either, so, we’re even.

And even when all my boys were home, and as the madness and noise swirled in chaos around me, I would glance out that window and wonder. If I left, just for a day or two, could I get some sleep? Some peace? Could I watch TV all day and rest? I am so tired.

A guilty knot grew in my throat, hard and full of wallowing self-pity. I breathed him in one more time, deep, so his innocence filled my gaps, desperate to make me feel stronger. The only tear I would allow stained his hair and once again he begged, “Mommy, how could you forget me?”

Pulling back, dropping to a knee, I held his face, “Baby, I didn’t forget you. I dropped you off, and went home to eat. I just… I hadn’t eaten all day. I was hungry… I know I had never left before, I… I didn’t know practice changed… I just, wanted to eat… I am sorry, I would never forget you.”

Hugging again, my mind wholeheartedly affirmed I would never forget you, but I have to stop forgetting me too.

Mom-dern Vignettes

hopefully hilarious life outtakes and mom fails

Tag

Tunnel Vision

Forget Me Not