issue #6: what i'm learning about motherhood & time
time is a thief, they say. they ain't lying
The beginning of the school season always brings along with it this stark realization: I am running out of time.
As sure as the days get cooler, the leaves change color, and the year’s end approaches is another thing. It’s a reality I hold deep in my chest, cloaked away beneath the other layers of me—the worry, the joy, the rage, and the bliss. I resist letting it out. I resist letting it reach the air of the outside world, knowing that if it does, when it does, I can no longer deny it.
And I can’t. The world spins, turning day into night and night into day with no regard for my silent screams willing it to stop. The reality remains.
Here you are one year older, one grade higher, one moment closer to no longer being mine.
What I’m learning is that minutes passed turn into days past faster than I can blink. I find myself frantically grasping for minutes, seconds, any semblance of time where I can be present at this moment with you without rushing or doing or getting you from one place to another. I cling, but time moves through my fists like water. Like air. There is nothing left for me, for us, when I open my hands.
When I look at your faces, what I feel is immense pride and simultaneous horror—you’re growing up so fast. You’re growing up too fast. I don’t tell you that though. I won't tell you I want you to stay this way forever. Because I don’t. You need to grow and it’s important to me to support you through it. I want to see you change and strive and fail and try. I want to watch you as you become who you’ll be. I want to be with you through every step of it.
I just also want to keep you always.
Even though you drive me crazy. Even though you make such a mess. Even though I often ask you to do the same things over and over to no avail and then let the guilt of nagging you eat into me for the rest of the day. Even though I am so incredibly tired of cleaning up crumbs from every surface of the house. Even though I’m consistently overwhelmed by the thought of shaping you into good people, good citizens. Even though my body sometimes feels like it will shatter under the weight of constant stimulation. Even though I beg for silence.
What I try to do is soak in your tiny voices, your baby hands, your ways of describing simple things: “the beautiful tree bark,” “the cool, crunchy dirt,” “the fluffy clouds like whipped cream.” What I try to do is memorize the way you laugh, closing my eyes when you do and letting it play like a soundtrack in my head. What I try to do is remember how you see the world, tattoo it onto my brain, so I’ll have you even when I don’t.
One day soon I’ll walk the empty halls of our house, stop short to stare into the doorway of your room. I’ll hear the silent screams of “MAMA!”, the shattering absence of thundering footsteps and crashing block towers. The stillness I once craved will suddenly feel like debilitating agony.
Each day that passes brings me closer to a day when I have less of you. Now your weekends are filled with friends and activities. Soon your evenings will be consumed with homework and sports practice or art class. Soon, I won’t decide how you spend your time. Soon, you’ll choose your friends over me and even though I want you to, even though I know you should, the marks will etch into my skin deeply.
Soon I’ll catch a glimpse of you in the morning and then be waking up to text you at midnight: “Are you home yet? Please tell me you’re safe.” Please, I’ll whisper to myself every second until you text me back. You won’t know I’d been holding my breath the whole time. You won’t know until you do it too.
One minute here, one minute there. What I’m learning is that I always have you for at least one minute less than yesterday.
What I’m learning is your fleeting childhood is just an exercise in learning how to live without you.
What I’m learning is that I’m running out of time.
I write these letters about motherhood as personhood because I hope these thoughts are in some way not only my own. When I put these out, it makes me feel a little less alone in this life and I hope it does the same for you. If you like this letter, you can forward it to a friend, share it on social, or leave a comment to tell me what you think. Thanks for being here. I appreciate you.
Hi Ojus! I love your writing! I read your clutter piece on Cubby at Home with interest. I am working on a piece about clutter. Can we talk? Please DM? https://twitter.com/marginallyokay1