you are three, amaree

You are three, Amaree.

Three years you emerged from my split open belly with a cry, announcing mayhem, heralding a new universe. The doctor held your little body up over the blue curtain, and I cried, too, instantly in love, knowing that nothing would ever be the same.

Now you know things now that I don’t know. When you accuse the dog of eating your lego, yelling, “Open your mouth! Spit it out!” I retort that he has never done that before and ask you to leave him alone, offering my blithe reassurances that he is merely eating some crumb off the floor. You persist. I give in, pry open his mouth, and pull out a lego.

You know that, when I say it’s too late and I am too tired to walk the long way home because I don’t want to pick you up over the long-way bushes, that I am not entirely reasonable. You stand there, unmoving under the night sky, and I threaten to pick you up on the count of 3 if you don’t come. You say, “If mama can pick Ami up, then why can’t mama pick Ami up over the bushes?” and I know in that instant that my bullshitting days are over.

You know that, when I lie down on the floor to stretch my back, that I am in pain. Without hesitation, you say, “I know just what you need,” disappear for several minutes, and then return with a hard-won jar of coconut oil. You sit down behind me, unscrew the lid, dig your hand in deep, and begin to smear coconut oil on my lower back. Without my asking, without your ever having done this before. You know things, and I begin to cry. You got a mom with scoliosis in this lifetime, and she hurts sometimes, and can’t lift you up at others, and somehow, rather than pouting, you are rubbing coconut oil all over what hurts.

You are three now, and I can’t believe it.

But it’s the only way to explain the things that have been coming out of your mouth as of late, including the other day in the shower, when in between pouring pretend smoothie and combing your hair with a sand shovel, you said, for no apparent reason, “little fucking mom” and “shit fuck mom.” I wish I could say I don’t know where you learned those words.

~

I am three, too.

Three years a mama. Three years dead and born again. Three years learning a new life, a new rhythm, one with very little quiet and very little space, one with very little me and very much us, that could only be tolerated amidst a love larger than the Milky Way.

Three, wondering why the heck it’s still so hard, and in fact feels like it’s become harder lately. Wondering where the days went when I longed to hear your first word. Wondering how on earth you got so many of them, and why they never seem to stop coming, especially in the hard, end-of-the-day moments, when your dad and I are so stressed and tired. Wondering when, if ever, there will be silence again, time to soften at the sound of rain, time to strengthen at the feel the ground, time to listen for the words that call from the inside.

Three, starting to emerge from my mom cave, starting to dream again of being a person, in addition to being a mom. Starting to hear some of those inside-words.

~

Amaree, we are three.

Three, learning together, this mom and child dance. How to ask, and how to receive. How to say yes and how to say no. How to want, and how to have limits. You and me, together.

The other night at dinner, after our long talk about the joy and travails of you sitting on my lap, I told you that if you kept wiggling, I would put you in the chair next to me. And then you crawled over to the chair next to me, and said, “Mama, I need to tell you something. If you keep touching me, I won’t sit on your lap.”

And so it is, both of us learning about autonomy and boundaries, togetherness and laps.

I never dreamed I’d meet my best friend at the age of 42. But out you came, and there was this sense of knowing you since forever, since before this lifetime and probably after.

And in this lifetime, I want to do so well by you.

This human of a mom does a pretty good job, but sometimes I get overwhelmed and sometimes I snap, sometimes I’m tired and I don’t want to play, and sometimes I count to 3 because my creativity has already gone night-night.

And yet, parenthood is a treatise on forgiveness. In the next moment, you are opening a bottle, and offering me one of your vitamins.

I cherish what will likely be our last year of boob-night and boob-morning, and sometimes boob-nap, too. I love our close, snuggly time, and there is a part of me that wants it to never stop. I hope that when the boob-time ends someday, that you will still want to curl up in my lap, still want to lean into me with your warmth and your tears, to whisper to me about your hopes and your fears, and maybe even ask a question or two about the things you don’t know, the mysteries of the larger lap we sit in.

I am here for you, Amaree, from three to eternity.

Happy birthday, sweet baby.