Morning light

The littlest one still creeps into bed with us sometimes in the middle of the night. I wake up and she is there, close to my face, breathing faintly from half-open lips, her nose dotted with freckles, her round cheeks smooth as cream. One morning, she opened her eyes and caught me studying her.  She took my face in her pudgy hands, and said, "Mommy I don't want you to get old."

Perhaps she recognizes that her mom is more worn out than other children's moms. I remember being proud that my mom was young and beautiful, and I pitied the other kids whose moms were shapeless and gray. Now my meanness is coming back to haunt me.  Poor child. She will never have a young and pretty mom.  The young moms at our park wear yoga pants and tank tops, their biceps defined, their curves firm, their skin tan. They have long shiny hair and faces unmarked yet by years and cares. Little girls are attentive to what is pretty and sparkly. I must seem more like the grandmas and nannies at the park in their orthotic sandals than these lithe, athletic young moms.

Maybe I am just a little bit frightening in the early morning sun, with my wrinkles deeply creased, dyed roots and grays showing in my messy hair. When her older siblings were small, I was young. She has this strange privilege of not having to share me very much with other children. My bed in the mornings was like a nest of mouselings rolling about when her oldest sibling was her age.

Perhaps she is just recognizing that these mornings when we nestle under the covers a few extra minutes before getting up, the sweetest time of day, won't last. Her older siblings don't climb into bed with mom and dad. In the past few weeks, many things have changed; her brothers left for college, the other kids went back to school, she started a little preschool program, I have been distracted, busy. I am not young and fun and carefree. She asks me often, "Why are you making that face, Mommy?" I will then realize I am squinting or grimacing or chewing on my cheek.

What lesson this? Only that time passes. I have been revisiting the poetry and literature of my college years, revisiting places, revisiting old photos and old books looking for something. As I prepare for teaching a new class, I realize how long ago it was when I first encountered Keats encountering Chapman's Homer.  The son who is newly away at college has been discovering the pleasure of reading Homer with a group of students who are interested in talking about it. Each time I talk to him he has a different idea for a major, or he has just returned from some study session. He is thinking about trying out the Great Books program that was my major.  Delighted that he is relishing his college experience, while also missing his chatter around here. Trying to remember 18 years ago when it was his tiny face smiling at me during that sweetest time of the day.