I Hope You’ll Remember These Times We Share

And I mean, really count them. Sometimes it’s almost an act of desperation, “I have this many years left of three kids in the house.” “I have this many months left of having what is considered an infant, and not a toddler.” “I have this many nice pets to cuddle.” “I have this many delicious mornings left before the light changes, or the season, or the year, or it’s my health, or whatever changes to take away the deliciousness.” Although maybe nothing really changes that for good. Maybe a life goal, or meaning, is to find the delicious little things that are part of every day. The world can explode around you, but you have this rich cream in your coffee. A meaningful smile across a breakfast table. The sounds of baby babble and kid delights. It’s edible; beyond edible.

Before my maternal grandmother passed away, she lived in an assisted living facility that took great care of her, or as much as a place like that can. I think really, my mom took great care of her, visiting daily and making sure she had the delicious little delights she needed – the right clothing, the right textures and fabrics and care. The right food and treats, and the richness of cream in her coffee. I’m charmed, and also saddened (with that squishy heart feeling) to think that on the day she passed, she had ordered her dinner and dessert, complete with ice cream flavor. That’s the kind of person she often was. Quirky and proud, and always one to indulge in the delights and comforts. I think I’m more like her than I ever knew. I discover it through these words and stories, piecing them together from the things I’ve seen, and all the things I’ve heard.

I remember when she met Scarlet, at one and a half years old and 97-years-old, respectively. Scarlet had a tiny bag of cookies from our tiny flight to Florida, and they shared them together. There was a moment of contented silence, as great-grandmother and great-granddaughter alike, shared the tiny delights of life. Cheap, mass-produced cookies – small and noticeable – to the most discerning and faded eyes of a toddler and her new elderly best friend. That’s how we all seem to be cut, fixating and obsessing over, and delighting in the small details and delights.

When I put Rider down to sleep, every morning nap, afternoon nap, and night before, I lay him in his crib, and then place his starfish sleep sack next to him, so I can guide in his wiggly hands and toes. He smiles, laughs, and squeals each time – because he likes going to bed, and he likes his little Zippadee sleep sack, and he knows the order of things and the rituals. I’ll guide him in, zip him up, place him down on the crib, while he laughs at my head always getting stuck in his llama mobile. It must be quite a sight! He will roll to his stomach, or roll to his side. He will rub his eyes, and roll some more. At his age, it doesn’t matter so much how he sleeps, because he has the strength to do what he pleases. “Goodnight, Sugar Shack. I love you, I love you, I do,” I say. “Goodnight, my Sugar Shack. I can’t wait to see you again. And we’ll delight in everything.

And when Rider wakes up, after every morning nap, afternoon nap, and night after, he’s happy again. I’ll usually find him lying on his back and babbling/squealing to the ceiling. Sometimes, lately, I’ll find him sitting straight up and waiting for me. Absolutely delighted to be awake. I’ll lay him back down to take off his starfish sleep sack, and then lift him so high and completely enthusiastically, that no matter how tired I am, I’m exuberant. My exuberance makes him feel light. Really, it’s my efforts. He grows and I grow, and we’re light and dark and heavy and light.

And then it’s night again, putting together three kids at three different life stages. I’ve grown impatient and unable to go to bed with sadness or mad-ness at Cassidy. Generally, now, I want to solve things fast – or at least broach the subjects and open the doors – to attempt to get to a place of warmth and closeness. It’s strange to me that I’ll rush through the bedtimes of the kids, when I am not in a place where I’d be able to do that with Cassidy. The other night, after tough arguing with Scarlet, we both gave in and broke down, and attempted to make things right. We did make things right, going to bed feeling close again. And it occurred to me that she deserves the effort and tirelessness I make and have with Cassidy these days. It’s astonishing that I’d want to rush through the time of night of twilight, stars, and dreams. They darken me inside and out, from my sunshine and rainbow moods and modes, but they shine their own light; their truths.

The mornings and the evenings now blend together with their own secrets of magic. Beds made and unmade. Good morning and good night kisses. Late night ice cream and morning cream in your coffee. Murmured conversations, and plans, and dreams, in the morning light and under the golden hour. Garden walks, and plump fingers reaching for the sun-grown berries I’ve picked. Rainbow hammocks and musty smells. It’s all both tiny and large, and the mornings and the evenings blend together with the sleeping and waking dreams. Of all I’ve ever wanted, all I hope to preserve, and all I’ll take with me – in the different directions of light, and the clean and hard truths. The delights, through it all, building and building, as we get closer to who we are.