Twelve

Beatrix turns 12 early tomorrow morning. Tonight, she is up on the 3rd floor with two of her closest friends, communing with ghosts on a  new ouija board that replaces the one she made with tinfoil and a sharpie when she was desperate to have one last year.

That means that, twelve years ago right now just this minute I was in the throes of a very difficult labor, hopped up on pitocin, with an epidural that would not take, and our amazing doula Vanessa doing all the magic she could to keep it together (which she did).

Though that night seems like yesterday, it means that I have been a mom for about a quarter of my life — a point that struck hard when I recently realized that I had also been motherless for 25% of my life.

And tonight at Beatrix's birthday party I watched her laugh and joke with her closest friends, who all seem to know her so well. They are an extraordinary group of young women, whose banter I loved overhearing, and I feel so lucky that she has the friends she has. (side note: overhearing the SPA kids talking was like going through some kind of wormhole into my own past, like there had literally been no passage of time).

And it means that time passes in a way I am not altogether certain I want it to...

Comments

Walt Seibert said…
Beautiful! As a parent twice and grandparent quadruply, your words rang a true north. Thank you sharing such a beautiful tribute to the wondrousness of life and its unending resiliency.
February 18, 2020 at 7:30 AM
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