I've been a mom for a decade and a half and it feels like it still isn't real. I was still a little girl in my brain, playing house, playing dolls, seeking stereotypes and forging ahead with my plans for the perfect family when Ruth was born, even as I stood in lineups at the bank, at the grocery store, at the hardward store marveling that people actually thought I was an adult. Then I blinked and suddenly the children are taller than me, so sure of themselves where I am not, navigating the world with ease while I remain behind scared to death of everything yet mindful of nothing all the same, careless as I careen from one day to the next, outrunning my own adulthood with the same speed that I outrun my shadow.
The children are my greatest achievement and my fondest wish, the biggest love I will ever experience but in a different way for this one that can't be killed, fought away or shut down. They are voracious, ridiculously sophisticated readers and just about as stubborn as me. They are argumentative, selectively forgetful and effortless in their plans to move ahead and see everything that's out there, knowing that I'm right here when they get hungry, when their hearts get broken or when they run out of money, means or mayhem to get into.
They watched American Hustle with us last night and now call the microwave the Science Oven.
Happy Mother's Day.
