Looking Backwards

I was up at 3:00am.  After a night of Joe Bandido's with the Cap'n, my mom, as well as Bing, Bang, and Boom -- all with their respective love interests. Though I'm not a real fan of Joe B's food, I was pretty sure the churning in my stomach at 3:00am wasn't calorie-induced.  Since I tend to internalize stress, it's usually my stomach that lets me know when I've hit overload.  This morning was no exception.

I'm in uncharted territory. I've got boys (well, a boy) coming to my house asking for my daughter's hand in marriage. The wonder of divorce is that I have my own voice in that conversation instead of deferring to her father for all the replies. I have sons (well, a son) showing me a wedding ring recently purchased with the intent of making someone else's daughter his one and only.  I have sons (well, yet another son) with his arm draped over yet someone else's daughter during dinner at Joe B's as he talks about his college homework, his MTC job offer and his summer employment plans that include leaving for North Carolina for about four months.

It's all so surreal. I spent my evening trying to listen to the real time conversations going on, while in my mind's eye and in my memory, I'm seeing and hearing other conversations taking place.  The daughter is five and she's standing in our basement apartment kitchen explaining to me the plan of salvation that she had learned about in Primary that day.  She's got it all down and particularly likes the part about how when you die, your body and your spirit separate like a glove and a hand, but it's okay because when the resurrection happens you put the glove back on again and you get to live forever.  She explains it with such fervency that I'm sure she's convinced she's telling me something I've never heard about before and she wants me to understand.

Blink and she is seven and one day in her seventh year, she is naughty. And, while I know all she wants is to climb up in my lap and be told all is forgiven, she's headed off down the hall to serve out the sentence of being sent to her room.  My 51-year-old self is screaming at my 34-year-old self, "Pick her up! Pick her up. You stupid woman, pick her up!"

I see a boy, the wonder of a first child.  He's so cute. In a few years, he's a Power Ranger for Halloween.  Next time, he's a frog. Then it's soccer.  There's a new puppy that sleeps only with him. There's Cub Scouts and a trip to Big Bear to earn a snowboarding belt loop. But, also, there is move after move after move.  To San Diego, to Texas, back to San Diego. Trauma. Divorce. Little broken hearts. Thank God, literally thank God, for Grandma's house. For a place to be. When he gets into middle school, he writes a paper. It's about Grandma's house. It's actually framed and hanging in that house, even today, proudly displayed on Grandma's wall.

He does everything first. Kindergarten, middle school, junior high then high school. Baptism, deacon, dating, driving, mission. Is it lonely or scary being first? Did he have enough support? Why didn't I think to ask?

And then there's the last boy (though we didn't know that at the time).  Kindergarten comes and everyone has to learn to write their name. He sits at the kitchen table and labors over J O N A T H A N.  After awhile, and a lot of groans and sighs, he looks up and says, "Mom, how many letters in Jonathan?"  I answer, "Eight."  "How many letters in Jon?"  "Three."  "Okay, from now on, I'm gonna be Jon."  Back to the writing practice.  J O N.

Everyone eventually gets to the point of being self-directed. It's a bit daunting when one of your children comes that way from the start.

Now we all sit at dinner. It feels like a time warp. Strange how you can look at someone who's 24, 23 or 21 years old. They laugh or gesture and it's the same sound or movement they had when they were 8, 7 and 5.

How did this happen?  When did this happen? Why didn't I listen when people (particularly mothers) were trying to tell me that you don't get time back?  Once a memory is made, there is no changing it to something else? Why is it now that I can see there was much more time for sitting on laps and making cookies and building blanket tents than I realized at the time?  Were there enough "you is kind, you is smart, you is important" moments?  Did they feel safe enough long enough?

You don't get moments back but the images of them remain.