An Unmemorable Day to Remember

The crock pot is still out on the counter from last night's roast, rinsed but not scrubbed. The kitchen rag has fallen into the sink and collected bits of uneaten food from our dirty plates. The dog is on the back porch barking to be let in the house. Folded clothes wait to be put away. They all beckon me, but I do not answer. I am laying on the living room carpet, still in my flannel pajamas, my elbows nestled deep into the plush fibers. My boys are playing trains. (Actually, Toby is playing trains, but Charlie is chewing on trains...) The sun is shining just right through the glass to pour over the whole floor and speckle the air with tiny bits of dust like snow. Toby watches a fleck drift his way and tries to capture it in his hand. He is still young enough that his knuckles are dimpled and his fingernails are slightly overgrown and dingy. I watch his face pause in curiosity as he uncurls his fist to reveal an empty palm. He gives it two more tries before conceding and returning to his train table. Charlie follows him with his half crawl, half scooch, a look of yearning on his face for stronger legs to jump and bounce like his big brother.

Has it already been three years since Toby himself was bound to his tummy, swimming around on the floor like a baby turtle? I realize that pages are flying off the calendar faster than I can catch. I want to pause time in this place, when I am an acceptable substitute for a jungle gym, and dinosaurs are the scariest thing imaginable, and wooden trains have faces and feelings and are real. Childhood is magical and consuming when you are in it, but infinitely more so as a mother.

Toby rearranges his tracks to create a trap for Gordon and the Express Coaches and hisses crashing noises as the cars tumble over. Charlie clambers up the side of a wooden bin nearby, his heavy breathing revealing the intensity of this feat, hoping for a better view of the action. "Mommy," Toby looks reflective, "I don't like apples." He pauses and spins the wheel of his train with his finger, "But I like juice boxes." Because I am his mom I know what he means and it makes sense. Apples are crunchy and fleshy and surrounded by thick peel that might be hiding something even worse. Juice boxes are made with apples, but only the sugary and smooth parts. And they have a bendy straw. I answer him with the best mom-lesson I can devise. "Juice boxes are good, buddy, but maybe you can like apples too someday."

I wish I could save this kind of morning: the dimply fingers, the timbre of their voices, the downiness of their hair -- the very essence of their smallness. I imagine snapping it safely into a Tupperware bin and throwing it in the attic with my old yearbooks to preserve for forever, but I know that I can't. And besides, to visit this place again after the dimples pull taught, and the fingernails are neat and trimmed because they can do it themselves, and hair is gelled and prickly, and their eyes no longer worship me, but are independent of me, that would break my heart into a million pieces.

So instead, this morning, I let the dishes get dusty where they lay. I turn away from the dog hair accumulating on the baseboards. I am busy. My kids need me to teach them how to somersault, and eat broccoli, and aim at the cheerio in the toilet bowl. The important stuff. Never before have I pursued a goal so foreign to my heart's true desire. All of my effort will be pointing to the day I dread most. A day when they put on big shoes that don't flash blinky lights with each step, not fastened with Velcro, but real laces, and walk out my door for the last time.

The sun shines vividly on one side of their faces, both engrossed in the moment's new discoveries. Pleasure and sadness mingle together, stinging my eyes, and I know I will mourn today's sunset.