in my kitchen, around the farm
fruit harvest and preservation/wild sodas/grandmothering
One forgets the demands of a little one. You’d think it would be impossible to raise three children, finding your way to the time when they have grown up and moved beyond, and you could even be capable of forgetting. But you are and you do. I didn’t think I had until our daughter came up from Virginia with our eighteen month old granddaughter in tow to light up our world. Suddenly, our quiet home was bustling with activity! My spice drawers were opened and rearranged. Our trip to the library necessitated more board books than I thought they’d even lend us. Our cow trough became a kiddy pool. There was noise and laughter and a silly grandpa willing to do whatever it took to get a laugh. And now they are gone. And with them our other daughter. And it’s silent again. More silent than it was before, I’m sure of it.
But it’s true what I say - one does forget the demands of a little one. I was in awe watching my daughter as a mama in her own right. That little one, sweet Ana Lu, wanting her time and attention and to be fed and have her wet t-shirt replaced with a dry one and be brought outside and then for a walk and then fed again, riding on her mama’s hip while the food was prepared. I forgot that stuff. I guess it just ends up being the stuff less important to remember. I guess it’s just impossible to put yourself back into that place, those early years, with an unedited heart. The moment my memories bring me there, I am swept away with those round baby hands in mine, the sweetness of those sleepy morning hugs, and the stories and lullabies in bed. I’ve forgotten the exhaustion and the relentless giving of one’s self. It’s still in there, living in my bones, the very framework of me, but it’s kind of like childbirth itself. It’s not until you do it again, the second go around when that twinge hits and it all comes rushing back to you, “Ah yes, I remember this now.”
And so a quick little love note to the young moms and dads reading this. Holy smokes, you are just phenomenal. The selflessness and the giving that it takes to raise children is ordinary, miraculous, endless stuff. You just get on with it, I know, but it doesn’t mean you’re not in a time of your lives of profound sacrifice. The rewards and sweetnesses are great. Of course they are. But so is the work and the focus required. I just want to say thank you for doing what you’re doing. I know many of you here tread on your own, unique path in life and that can add another layer to navigating parenting in this wild world in this time. I’m grateful, we should all be grateful, for your tenacity and love. It makes us all richer, the whole world brighter and better. Thank you.
So now they’re gone and my dear husband and I rested for a day, relishing the quiet that allowed us to hear the birdsong again. That lasted for a day. By day two we were reminding each other of Ana’s little quirks, her joy in being naked in the sun, in being silly. I miss going berry hunting with her. In the mornings I would scoop her up and we would go outside calling “Berrrrrrries!” all while walking around to the known berry haunts. When we found our patch, she would squeal in excitement and I would commence picking. She preferred fists full at a time. That’s my kind of gal.
It’s still a bit of a weird place to find myself - this grandma biz. I guess I just thought that when this time came, I would feel like a grandma and operate like a grandma. That’s not how it turns out. I’m still just Tara. Still, after decades of marriage, I sometimes look at my husband and think, “Huh? I’m married?” There’s parts of us that never really catch up with circumstance. It’s a constant stretching and effort to become what life asks of us.
