Learning to Love Them Better

Learning to Love Them Better

The woman stood with her back against the sink and stared up at the screen. Close-cropped brown hair and a tribal shell necklace accented her beauty. I usually write during my daughter’s forty-five minute dance class, and I have a terrible habit of staring whenever I’m thinking, and this woman was directly in my line of view.

I watched her smile while harried mothers came in, dragging their three-year-olds in pink, footless tights and unruly curls. It was as if she knew a secret the rest of us didn’t. When she wasn’t watching us, she stared up at the screen with that enigmatic smile. I stared up at the screen as well. It was divided into four parts for the four different classes. My four-year-old was in the top left.

I continued writing as the waiting area erupted with children caught between nap time and supper. And still, even with that chaos, the woman smiled. I wrote a little more and then glanced up with a thought. That is when I saw her tears.

I have a hard time letting anyone cry alone, but I could tell by the way she blinked and looked up at the screen that she didn’t want anybody to know she was crying.

I wondered why she was crying. I wondered what was wrong. But then the teachers brought my daughter’s class down. I hugged and kissed my girl and swung her up in the chair to put on her sparkly sneakers. Hand in hand, we left the studio’s basement and walked out onto the sidewalk toward our car. I saw the woman, then, with her daughter. I just saw their backs, but her daughter was older and almost as tall as she.

I watched the two of them depart, walking together but not touching. I suspected why those tears had been in the mother’s eyes, and I held my own daughter’s hand tighter.

I imagined that woman could remember her daughter at the age of those tiny dancers, and she had been reliving the memories while she stood there with her back against the sink. I imagined she was thinking about how quickly the time had gone.

Watching their retreating silhouettes on the hill, I told myself I would be such a present mom, I wouldn’t have any regrets once my girls reached that age.

A lot of good that did me.

The next night, I raised my voice while helping my daughter with her homework. Fifteen minutes later, I raised it again while trying to scrub all three girls’ hair in the bath.

I tucked the girls in at a quarter to eight and then collapsed on the couch. When my husband came out of their room, I confessed what I had done: how I had raised my voice, how I had failed my promise to have no regrets. We talked it through (or, rather, I talked and he listened), and after he went to bed, I walked into my girls’ room and watched them sleep.

I prayed over their lives. I prayed for grace. The truth is, my girls are going to grow up regardless of how many books I read to them, how many hugs I give to them, how many wounds (imaginary or otherwise) I kiss, how many cookies I bake, how many trips we take to the park.

Every day, this season is changing, and so, in ten years, I might be that woman standing with my back against the sink while watching the three-year-olds in their tutus and nap time curls twirl around the classroom with colorful scarves.

Motherhood is just a season, but the beauty of a season is that you cherish it all the more because you know it’s going to change. My chest aches to watch my girls grow up, and yet I would never want to stay here–changing diapers, scrubbing hair–forever.

Therefore, I am going to cherish this season of growth for myself and for my girls, and I am going to extend grace to myself as I learn to love them better.

How are you going to extend grace to yourself this week?