There is nothing like finally cracking your eyelids at 5am to a little voice calling, "mom. Mom. MOM!" to start the day off wrong.
Usually, early morning wakeups mean I'll be doing a load of laundry in short order. That was not the case this morning, although that might have been preferable to what I got instead.
This morning my five-year-old just wanted to talk. "Mom, I don't want to grow up and die," was the lead. Well, that woke me up. I am making a new rule that there is no discussion about mortality before at least two cups of coffee, and preferably, at least one of those coffees is Irish.
His questions aren’t entirely unexpected, I lost another friend earlier this week. Even when I try to shield him, he hears EVERYTHING.
So, we had hard conversations at 5 am. What does it mean to die? What happens when you die? Will I die? Will you die? I tried to answer in a way that was honest but not scary. I'm sure I fell short, but I don't know how to answer those questions even when totally coherent.
I asked similar questions at his age. Particularly as a kid growing up on a small farm, the constant confrontation with death is unavoidable for him. He's finally gaining the sentience to understand that he is alive but other things are not, he wants to explore what that means.
Sorry, kiddo, but the best predictor of eventual death is being alive.
This was the same son who was with me in the truck when Lucia died a few months ago. He was brave and loving, but I'm sure it was also hard to grasp. Now that there are new babies out in the pasture, he looks at them with a different shine - as if he's finally starting to get the miracle of life.
This morning reminded me of a night a few days ago when I was in the hammock with both boys, looking up at the trees above. We swayed with the breeze and chatted about everything and nothing. It was one of those moments - you know the ones - where I just wanted time to stop.
But then, one of the boys stuck his big toe up the other's nose. Then there was the crying and the yelling and the magic dissipated into mist as quickly as it had solidified moments before. I was reminded of the words of my friend Sandra, "The days are long, but the years are short."
It seems like my sons were just born five minutes ago, yet now I'm discussing death before coffee.
I have a friend in the hospital right now, and today I went to visit her. She's a few years older than me and also has two sons. Hers, though, are now both adult men.
We talked today about how quickly it all goes as I regaled her with nightmare stories of the boys hitting one another, shooting things with nerf guns, and licking everything in their path. She told me that I'll miss it someday even when it's hard right now.
This led me to think about the things I'll actually miss and those things I won't.
Things I won't miss:
Never being able to go to the bathroom alone
Stepping on wet things with bare feet and wondering what they are
Never being able to buy something nice without wondering how many hours it will last
Watching money set figuratively on fire (and sometimes literally)
That sticky film on everything no matter how many times I wipe it
Screaming "where are your shoes?!?!" until I cry
Making the meal that we MUST HAVE THAT MOMENT in order to watch no one eat it
Calliou
Them taking photos of me at the worst possible angle making me look like I’m 300 pounds
All toys that make noise
Bottles that have been making cheese under furniture
The noise
Things I will miss:
Staring at the trees and talking about life
The smell of sunshine in their hair
Their baby laughs
Watching my sons look at new things with wonder and awe
Every time they learn new words and mispronounce them
Watching the boys learn empathy and care for the baby goats
Sticky kisses
The pure love and joy
Singing along to the radio
Being the coolest person they know
The noise
Early-morning pressing life questions
I'm going to miss this.
All the love, Kelly. I feel this all so much. ❤️
Beautiful!