To Titus

A poem and some reflections

To my youngest, who recently turned 13

Here's to my only babe born in the summer, 
Born when the mead moon was full and high, 
Born with soft hair of a bright copper color, 
Born with a glint of the fierce lion's eye. 
Taller (by far) than the mother who bore you, 
Funny and kind and quick to assist, 
I rejoice in the man you're becoming, it's true, 
But I cannot forget the baby I kissed.

---

Motherhood, like all love, is seeing the person you love layered by time. It is as if translucent hues overlay the person and, depending on how the light hits them, at any moment they can suddenly look different, like themselves years ago or maybe a quick peek at what they will be in years to come - or ages to come. I see my husband of 23 years ago in my husband of today. Both are present. Time is both iridescent and dimensional.

These layers of time and shared experience are what give depth to any relationship. In each of my kids, I still can see hints of the babies they were in who they are now. But I do not tell them so, at least not very often. They are all about the present and the future, as they should be. Their life is before them. They have their eye on the next bend in the road. Meanwhile, I am glancing over my shoulder more and more these days, trying to remember how the road looks before we take that approaching bend.

I am learning that the past is for me to treasure as experiences and for them to enjoy as stories, as personal myths. Myths are the origin stories of a people; the stories of how time came to be, how the world came to be, how the listeners came to be. There is so much of my kids’ lives that they don't remember but which is vivid and alive in my memory. I enjoy passing down these myths, these stories of what happened before their time began, or when everything was brand new, and the kids enjoy hearing them. It’s fun to see the laugh at stories of their toddler antics. But I can't be always talking about a life they don't remember. It is off-putting and can lead to a feeling of alienation, as if the life they are living now is less real than the life they can't remember. I have experience with people that struggles with this balance of past, present, and future, often reminiscing but knowing nothing about the current, day-to-day life of their adult kids. They try to engage but their heart just isn’t in it, and so more often than not the conversation goes back to, “do you remember?” And no, I don't.

It is a tricky balance to hold. Those early years were precious. I want to share them with my kids because they matter. But to the child, they are stories only. True mythic stories in that they tell of a time before life (for them) began. There is no memory of experience to anchor the story to their selfs in the same way that it is anchored in the parent. Still, we know we should tell the stories anyway because myths are what ground a people in reality and give a culture (even a family culture) it’s foundation for identity. And like I said, the kids love a well-told story about how hilarious or adorable (or what stinkers) they were.

Because of this, I have come to believe that the past should be treated like salt - sprinkle it on in small amounts, regularly but judiciously. It should add flavor and savor to our shared life. Too much spoils the dish. Not enough and the dish has no depth.

Here be the ponderations of a mother who has no little ones left except those in her memory. A mother who knows herself to be a crossroads in time. I am both sad and not sad about this. Those years of small people were hard times. Older kids present their own challenges but I don’t feel like I am constantly pushed to the end of myself. I genuinely like all of my kids ( I know this does not always happen as kids become adults so I am very thankful) and seeing them become who they are is like seeing a sunflower seed become a sunflower. How did all that glory and beauty fit in such a small shell?

Things change. People change. But the past tells me in no uncertain terms that I can trust Him fully with my future and the future of all whom I love. They are His first, last, and every moment after all.

All of this leads me to be very very glad that my teenage plan to not have kids was thoroughly and wonderfully stomped on by the Providence of our severely merciful God. He is kind, giving us what we need and He is kind, blessing us with what we don't yet know we want more than anything else.