Mudroom

I thought I needed a mudroom

For the backpacks and shoes and jackets and umbrellas

So I wouldn’t have to step over cleats and ballet shoes and water bottles

On entry to my own house

But now I realize stepping over the clutter reminds me

That you are here.

I thought I needed a playroom

In the years when the house was filled

With miniature kitchens

And art tables

And wooden train tracks

And dolls and super heroes

But it turns out my memories of the don’t-touch-the-floor obstacle courses make me smile more
Than cleaning it up exhausted me.

I thought I needed another bedroom

So the boys wouldn’t have to share the too-small bunk bed

Until I heard the bedtime question the night before school started

Is middle school scary

And the reassuring answer from the bottom bunk.

I thought I needed a second story

To get you out of my space

So I could watch the news from the kitchen

And have peace and solitude in the evenings

But then I heard the adolescent voices

Playing their video games

And the teenage gossip from my daughter’s room

And realized this is how I stay in their world.

I thought I needed another bathroom

For the morning scramble

But now I hear you laughing and wrestling

And spraying each other with water bottles

And fighting over how long the shower is

And who goes first

And I am reminded of my own childhood.

I thought I needed to upgrade my minivan

Until it fit the extra baseball players

En route to an across-town game

And I got to know your new friend

Who said the brown bananas I brought were delicious

While you laughed about them in the front seat.

I thought I needed a second dining area

For holidays and birthdays and high school graduations

But it turns out that my people and our people

Are content on card tables on the driveway

Or in the living room

And that what matters is not the tables themselves

But the conversation around the tables

And the simple presence that says, “I am here.”

I thought I should give you fancy vacations

To Europe or Africa or Hawaii

But it turns out

That the beautiful town we visit in Colorado

Where Papa taught you to fish

Is the space where you find peace for your restless spirit

And that the Galveston beach

Where your aunt taught you to race clams

Resets your soul’s rhythm to be in sync

With the ocean’s crashing waves.

I thought I needed to give you

The highest level guitar class

And the more intense sports team

And the harder and harder classes

And the glowing report cards

And the specialized high school to show the world you could sing like an angel

But I see now all that matters is that you three are good people

The best that humans can be.

I thought maybe I should be thinner or taller

And maybe not so socially awkward

And more fashionable

And less shy

And more stylish

And more extroverted

And maybe not eat so much junk food

But now I know that none of that matters

To the people who call me mom

And that the only thing that matters

Through the nagging and instruction and not-wanted guidance

Is that I am here.

I thought I needed all of these things

But after 23 years of creating family

And 19 years of parenting

I have learned the beautiful truth

That the only thing I really need

Is us.

The advice and opinions herein are by no means meant to be a substitute for professional medical advice. Please contact your personal physician, mental health provider or health care professional for medical advice. Opinions are my own.

Afraid

The Golden Egg