Second Chance

When I was a young mother to one, then two, then five, then six kids, my days were a to-do list. Everything I did was a set-up for what followed. I developed into a multi-tasker, which, like juggling, required timing and skill rather than emotional engagement.

My public aspect was cheery Zen, but internally, I was anxious hamster on a wheel. Fun mom was often a façade atop the pressing checklist I (by necessity, I thought) put before all else.

The reason I bring this up is my two-year-old grandson slept over the other night, and even though he slept straight through like a little double-diapered angel, I tossed and turned fitfully, worried he might wake up.

The inevitable result was the punchy exhaustion that is the familiar province of vigilant baby and toddler parenthood. In my state of exhaustion all I could do was follow him around. I saw to his basic survival and he drove the day, which meant we spent a lot of time visiting some neighborhood trucks, playing trucks, and reading books about trucks. Sometimes he just played with trucks by himself while I sat next to him like a benign zombie, marveling at the dexterity of his plump fingers and the sweetness of his laughter.

It got me thinking. How lucky I am to get this chance to fully embrace the childhoods I should have been appreciating while my own kids were experiencing them after the fact, with their kids! It took the universe wearing me down to access a do-over.

What if it turns out that my greatest accomplishment was burning through brisk efficiency to arrive at this languid shore, where I can manage to feel joy as not linked to accomplishment?

I miss my old energy far, far, far less than I love my newfound patience.