When Cael was born, I had a very romantic idea of what motherhood would be. I spent hours nuzzling his soft neck and whispering secrets in his ear about the places we would go and the dreams I saw for his future. His essence oozed sweetness, and I knew that his life, and mine with him, would be magical.
Somewhere we got off course. Well, not really, but sort of. This life with my children is still a dream, but one that lacks the graceful ebb and flow I'd anticipated as life grew inside of me. Instead, I've learned that the drama-- the brutal highs and lows, the milestones reached as I watched from behind the camera with tear-filled eyes and even the moments when I felt I had nothing left to give, were all designed in a master plan.
I've learned that the moments are often unexpected. Moment like the other day, a day like any other, with Graham snoozing peacefully in his bed while Cael chanted the words to his favorite "Choo Choo Soul" song as he played with his trains. I smiled when I heard him sing.
"Standing in line at the Chuckabee Station. Get a ticket for the bullet train..."
"Cael, honey, it isn't 'Chuckabee Station'. It's 'Japanese Station'."
"What is a Japanese station?"
"It's a train station in a country called Japan."
"Where is Japan?"
"It's very, very far away. Pretty much on the other side of the Earth."
"Wow, that's far."
I left him to tackle some laundry, only to bring a basket down and smile again as Cael continued singing.
"Standing in line at the Chuckabee Station..."
Oh well. He likes it better this way. I sat down with him, planning to read a story before sending him to bed and the uncertainty of sleep. At night, alone in our warm home, his agile fingers drove his trains across the room, whizzing around curves and smoothly passing under bridges.
"Cael, do you want a story before bed?"
This one of his favorite rituals, and also one of the only times when his attention is great enough to listen to a story. But this time he paused before walking over to me.
"Do you miss your Mommy?"
I knew he'd ask someday. I'd mentioned her before but deliberately kept the conversation light, wanting to avoid the fear and unnerving realization that one's mother, one's world, could be taken awake in the blink of an eye.
"Of course I do. I miss her everyday."
I miss what I remember. I miss falling asleep to the sound of her bathwater running from the warmth of my bed. I miss how she'd set out a big pot of water for me and let me stir in whatever herbs I could find on the exotic shelves of her spice cabinet. I miss kneeling in the garden with her as she pulled weeds, feeling the softness of the dirt between my toes. I miss her smell. I miss seeing her read in her bed by her tiny book light. I miss the days before she was gone.
But today, over 15 years later, I don't remember much else. I was always aware of how loved I was, how wanted. But few memories remain from the eleven years we spent together.
Will Cael always remember me? Even if I lived forever, would he sit with his young son and share with him the details of a childhood filled with love? Could he share the story of when he rode a steam engine? Could he recall the smell of my perfume or the way Joel's whiskers felt on his cheek? Or would it all slowly fade away?
"Why did she die?"
"She got very sick."
"Didn't she have medicine?"
"Yes, she did. But she was sick for a long time and the medicine couldn't help anymore. But you don't need to worry about that. I'm healthy."
"Oh, okay."
Is there ever an appropriate way of assuring your child that you will always be there for him, yet preparing him for the fact that you might not? And my biggest dilemma-- how do you soak up every moment when you're so busy just trying to get through each trial-filled day?
"But you know what's cool? Now she's in heaven and she can watch over you all the time. I'm sure she loves seeing you play and learn things at preschool. And boy, does she ever love you!"
"She loves me in heaven?"
"Absolutely. Just as much as she would have loved you here."
"But where is heaven?"
"You know, we've talked about it before. It's very far away. But it's a great place."
"Can we go there?"
"Nope, not now. You only go there when God is ready for you to go."
However long this life lasts, I hope I never forget conversations like these. I hope I never forget the way my boys run and giggle, unabashedly, as they head outside to play. I hope I never forget how their freshly washed hair smells after a bath. I hope I never forget how they ask for kisses each night and how willingly I gave them. I hope I never forget how this life, although different from what I anticipated, exceeds all expectations.
And I hope I never forget how much they love me.
"Is it very, very, VERY far away?"
"Yes."
"I think I know where it is, Mommy."
"Really? Where?"
"It is all the way around the Earth to the Japanese station."
I knew he was listening.
