You were a hope and a prayer that turned into two pink lines on a September afternoon. You were the size of a poppyseed resting in my palm as I cried in the pantry. You were a lima bean taped to your grandmother’s calendar, a heartbeat on the monitor, and a kick to your father’s hand. You were the pivot of my life, when in great pain and greater joy you entered the world to piano. It played and I held you and knew I’d never be the same.
You slept through the heat of summer and I watched your chest rise and fall in the bassinet. I learned swaddles and lullabies and that the world spins to fleeting moments. For too quickly your wiggles turned to rolls and crawls. Your cooing turned to “dada” and “mama” and lots of “moos” on afternoon walks by the pasture. You turned your head from my breast and made messes of purees and ate fruits with their juice running down your face. I put away the bassinet and walked the long hallway in the deep of the night to feed you. I rocked you during those midnight hours and longed for the day before, while also yearning for morning light. I held grief and joy in my hands as I watched you grow, as you turned one, as I do now.
These moments with you are like flecks of gold in a stream I didn’t know I was panning. I try to catch them but the current holds them stronger. As if each second with you was a diamond small as sand. I feel the grit of them sliding away, as I clench my hands to hold them. Like the bubbles you have taught me to laugh at, I smile at their iridescent colors and am surprised when they are gone. Like dandelion seeds in a breeze.
Your tiny fingers hold my hand as you stand, but in strength and resilience you let go. You take two wobbly steps forward and turn back at me with your gummy smile. We laugh and clap together, and I hold onto this moment for I have learned that this my darling, my poppyseed, is the lesson of motherhood: that I will always hold you, and yet let go.