Being at my parents house this past week has afforded me the rare gift of solo drives. Something I used to take for granted before kids and yet something I yearn for often, now that most car rides come equipped with two very rowdy and demanding passengers. It was close to ten and the most perfect crescent moon shone high over the windshield. My spotify app was diligently selecting amazing songs and my mind was allowed to wander. It strayed away from thoughts of laundry, finances, meal planning and other drivel and zig zagged it's way to thoughts about this new decade I have just embarked on.
Three days into thirty a lot of the ambivalence has subsided and instead replaced by a curiosity and almost thrill about all the unknown that lies in front of me. And then I thought about one of my favorite books - The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein. So many quotes have stuck with me over the years but one in particular comes up more often than most...

my father at the zoo with his siblings and my grandmother

A few weeks ago we were in our backyard enjoying a beautiful sunset. Up on our hill we have the most breathtaking views of the Blue Ridge mountains and four months later I still can't get enough of every sunset and sunrise. Kevin and I were kicking back in our patio chairs while the buzz of insects almost lulled us into an early slumber. The kids were running around doing whatever it is that children do on warm summer evenings such as this. The chickens were pecking away at the measly bushes of grass that pepper our disaster of a yard. And everything was bathed in a warm amber glow. And I wanted to capture... it all. I wanted the perfect photo, the perfect video that encapsulated how it all felt. The need to document it all was overwhelming.
And yet, luckily, my phone died. And there I was left with nothing but my own two eyes and ears to "capture" it the old fashioned way. Instead of fumbling with filters and settings I focused on a curly strand of hair that would habitually sweep over Birdie's temples. Every few minutes she would swat at it with her tiny toddler hand, fingernails full of dirt. I watched Teddy methodically scrape the ground with his miniature rake... Scccrattchhhh... Scrrraaatcchhhh... And every once in a while he would utter a delightful little "hmmm..." and survey his work. And all of this against the background song of the wood thrush singing her nightly lullaby.
I don't have any photos or videos of that evening but I have a feeling that the sound of a wood thrush or a warm summer evening breeze will always remind me of nights like this one. The same way that Blink-182 song instantly transports me to the beige hallways of my high school or the smell of popcorn and A&F number 8 perfume brings me back to summers at my uncle's house and turning sixteen. Strawberries and a steaming bowl of cream of wheat is my toddlerhood. Patchouli and Chanel number five is my best friend's dorm room in college. The gentle crunch of taffeta and clinking of silver is our wedding on that perfect August evening. That Keith Urban song comes on and I can close my eyes and feel the heat from the steering wheel and the tears running down my face, Tennessee in my rearview mirror but his words still so freshly imprinted on my heart.
Don't get me wrong I adore photographs and love videos. I spend hours looking through them before bed almost every evening. There's no better feeling than uncovering a box containing decade old sepia toned photographs. I love seeing my dad as a baby, my mum as a sassy teenager and my husband as the chunky bright eyed infant that he was thirty years ago. And I know I will treasure all the photos I'm collecting now. I can see myself now, in the throes of "empty nesters syndrome" tears in my eyes, gently cradling the memories of when my babies were... babies. But I'll also carry so much with me that can never fit on a 5 by 8 square of paper or in an hour of video. The way they smelled fresh from the hospital or fit into my cradle hold when I fed them, sometimes for hours on end. The way their tiny hands fit into my mine. All those looks - the needy look, the loving look, the look of awe or admiration. The weight of their tiny and then increasingly heftier bodies on my chest. The sound of their bare feet on our floors as they run around in the mornings, leaving a trail of cheerios behind them.
But I've been trying to pull back. To allow myself the gift of just being present in the moment. Not everything is meant to be recorded or documented. Some things should be reserved for our memory banks alone where we can dust them off and enjoy them from time to time. Because the most precious ones would never make a perfectly composed square or charming video. They're precious to us for reasons that can't always be explained. They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder and let me tell you I behold so much beauty every day that isn't "instagram worthy" or would be interesting to anyone other than myself. But it doesn't need to be. That fact doesn't dull the shine of the moment or make it any less significant. It is special for reasons that only make sense to us. I got rid of Snapchat as it started to feel like there was always a fifth person with us that needed to be fed "memories" at all times. Between photos and videos I felt like I was always somewhere else, always on the fringes of the experience.
In general I've become more aware as of late of how I spend my time, my money and my energy. Is my time and energy being used for something meaningful? Is my money going towards things that are lasting and quality and authentic? Curtailing our consumption has almost felt like a part-time job as habits that have been ingrained for decades are slowly being broken. Curtailing my consumption of social media is something I've done from time to time but I'm trying to be even more intentional this time. I don't want my life to go by and all I'll be left with is photos but no memories of what happened inside the photographs. I want the documenting to be an after-thought not my primary motivation. I want to see, smell, feel and experience something first and archive it later. Because my mind has has never ran out of "storage" and that's a truly beautiful thing.

My eyes are closed but I can feel the sunlight on my lids. And I hear that familiar, sleepy "mamaaa" emanating from the nursery. My heart melts. The door opens and soon our bed is full of tiny feet and dimpled hands. A diaper that needs to be changed, a hungry belly in need of cheerios and giggles. I'll shuffle downstairs, wiping the sleep from my eyes and like a reflex fill two bowls with the carb laden rings. Back upstairs I go, the cheerios ringing in the morning in the white ceramic bowls. The day begins.
There will be work that needs to be done, fingers pounding at a keyboard. Laundry to be washed, dried and folded. Meals to be cooked. Errands to be ran. There will be timeouts and naps and playtime and "mama can you read this book for me." There will be tears and fighting over something completely innocuous like a straw or empty box of wipes. I'll probably lose my temper at some point and someone will cry (most likely around witching hour or between 4 and 6 pm). Then it's dinner and baths and a few bedtime stories. Kisses goodnight and then the much awaited "lay on the bed while sighing loudly and watching the ceiling fan." Decompress. Exhale.
And sometimes it feels like all you do is give and give and give. Children this young don't really "support" you, they're not your shoulder to cry on and they don't often give great advice save for those rare moments when your three and a half year old tells you "mama it's nice when you spray pefume on your face." And perhaps the reason for the lack of social media tributes and four page letters is because it's nearly impossible to pin down with words what it is that children do you for you. Because it's not of this earth... It's magic. It's fairy dust. It's something you try and grab hold of and yet it always slips through your fingers...
How to explain to someone how that two syllable word - mama, can heal more quickly and effectively than years of therapy? How to describe what it feels like when you're sitting on the sofa and your daughter brushes the hair from your face and lays her head on your shoulder? How to explain the inner strength that manifests itself so potently from the first moment you laid hands on your firstborn? Strength you never even imagined was bottled up inside you all this time. How to verbalize the way you can feel so many powerful emotions from one glance at your child? They are wind, fire, water and earth. And yet they feel ethereal too, as if their mysterious little minds are always somewhere other than this planet. They are a hurricane and a calm breeze. Sunshine and darkness and peace and quiet. I've never seen true chaos until I spent one day with a toddler trying to grasp language. It's as if you see the synapses firing off in front of your very eyes.
What a gift it is to have these tiny creatures that amidst the darkness and the heartbreak remind us of all things good, kind, innocent and wonderful. That remind us that we always communicate best when we use our body more than our mouth. Sometimes all we really need is to hold someone's hand, a good old fashioned bear hug or the warmth of a kiss. What a blessing these little souls are to us.