Relationships are like red buds. Just as you become almost bored to death of the barren branches, flowers break open from them almost overnight. My husband I met at twelve, began a relationship at 14 and married by 20. The night before our wedding, I lay in my twin sized, floral comforter covered bed and briefly mourned the end of the before- marriage-part of our relationship. I had no doubts, no worries, and I welcomed the unknown but certain changes we’d face in the covenant committed part of our relationship; but what we’d had up to that point had been remarkable, wonderful…and a little part of me hated to leave it behind. But I knew it was time.
Our new marriage made us feel like we had won the jackpot with each other, except for occasionally when we felt more like we were washed up gamblers who kept putting all they had on the table but walked away broke. Overall – the wins outnumbered the losses, but I found myself needing more - needing a new dimension to our relationship. Mashed potatoes are good – but gravy makes them better. We were good – but I wanted better. I wanted a new challenge, I wanted a new level of sharing life with him, I wanted to commit even more deeply to each other. I wanted a baby.
It took longer than we thought. So long we doubted it would ever happen. I knew a baby would stretch our relationship, but I didn’t know that the possibility of never having a baby would sieve through our marriage like a giant colander. Our future without children looked to me a lot like a red bud tree before March.
Years passed and just when we thought the barren branches would never bloom –two pink little lines on a pregnancy test ushered in a new season for us - one filled of growth, exploding with beauty, and smelling fresh and new. The news of our coming twins eclipsed everything for us. The universe had a new rotation and although the transition jolted us a bit, we loved the shift.
But the night before the twins were born, I lay in my queen sized Navajo comforter covered bed I grabbed my husband’s hand and briefly mourned the end of the before kids part of our marriage. I had no doubts, no worries, and I welcomed the unknown but certain changes we’d face in the parenting part of our relationship; but what we’d had up to that point had been remarkable, wonderful…and a little part of me hated to leave it behind. But I knew it was time.
As I cared non-stop for two tiny beings whose sole dependency fell on me, I had a revelation. Maybe it was more of a realization. I realized I had been a baby. A baby who woke my mother night after night needing comforted and fed. A baby who needed burped and changed. A baby whose mother starred at me with that love drunk look on her face while rubbing my fuzzy head until I fell asleep in her arms.
My children wouldn’t remember those first days of unceasing attention or care, nor will they understand the pleasure and agony of my love for them until the day their own red bud bursts with blooms. Then they will know. Then they will see. Then they will understand.
Our parents all took turns coming to see our life in full bloom, much like the spring season that served as the stage for our new family. My Nana came too. She flew for her very first and only time to visit us. My husband amazed her with his agile, speedy, diapering techniques. One brow lifted and her eyes brightened as she told me … “When your daddy was just a baby, I had to take the laundry in once a week to the wash.” Then she began to refer to herself in the third person. I knew the memory provoked her …”Corene took the baby and the laundry, and your Papa Bob went to the barbershop and had a cut and a coke. Well, if Corene had it to do it over again, she would hand Bob that wiggly baby to watch while he enjoyed his coke.” She finished with an assertive head nod. As I watched my husband wrangle both babies at once – pride infused my love for my diapers and wipes superhero to terrifying levels.
The same Papa who’s fathering prowess came into question, would drive for an hour to fix my car, pick me up, or bring me chips and cheese dip throughout my teenage years. Though I cannot speak for him as a father, as a grandfather he gallantly redefined the role. We’d often drive with the widows down. He loved smelling the different seasons. I remember his face fashioning into the most pleasurable expression as he inhaled spring’s ethereal perfume, summer’s verdant aroma, fall’s tangy fragrance, and winter’s crisp scent. He loved it when the seasons changed. He loved the coming and going of them all. He knew how to both accept and let go. The day after my wedding, I had to start learning the lesson he’d worked to teach me. He died suddenly. Unexpected.
I like the red bud only when it’s blooming. If I were the designer of trees, I would have the tree wear the color all year. I can accept change – but I don’t like letting go. I have a cedar box full of worthless trinkets. Broken jewelry, plastic and wooden rings, watches that don’t work, and a lapel pin in the shape of a Viking. They represent more than a memory – they remind me of people – none of which I want to take out of my cedar box. One of the watches that doesn’t work was a gift my husband gave me on my birthday in 9th grade. I keep it to remember my husband at 14. To remember how he changed my life so long ago. We’ve shared many birthdays since then, but this last one was especially fabulous. It was the kind of day I wish I had the ability to Zip-lock and freeze so I could dethaw it and enjoy later - my children’s voices singing to me, my husband’s arms holding me. I know someday it would taste even better than it did the first time.
Much like that spring week I spent with Nana. During her stay a tornado launched newscasters into ceaseless coverage of the weather as sirens sounded. We left her with a baby in each arm, in front of a video camera we failed to turn off in the excitement as we went outside to evaluate for ourselves. Later watching her attempt at comforting the infants while terror hijacked her nerves remains one of the funniest things I have seen in my life. She’s gone now – and I didn’t know how high those memories would appreciate.
The red bud was a gift to my family – in honor of Nana when she passed. Today the blooms cover her tree. Papa would appreciate the display – but would understand when the vivid pinks and purples gave way to the rich green leaves. He would tell me to not be anxious when the leaves cannot hold their places any longer and leave the tree bare, naked, and vulnerable. It’s the accepting and letting go of the seasons that makes the red bud thrive. Spring always gives way to summer, summer eventually submits to fall, and fall never fails to relinquish its stay for winter to weigh in with its heavy pause on all life. But winter, like a gentleman brings spring in on his arm. And she - she dresses and drapes everything in her rich textures and vivid designs. I love her work – but know I cannot zip-lock or freeze it, nor can I hide it away in my little cedar box.
Each night I tuck my kids in their beds: the blue comforter one, the sports themed one, the Bohemian colored one, and the white tiger themed one. Each night – for just a moment – I mourn the passing of a day I will never have with them again. I have no doubts, no worries, and I welcome the unknown but certain changes we’ll face in the many coming seasons of our relationship as a family; but what we’ve had up to this point has been remarkable, wonderful…and a little part of me hates to leave each passing season behind. But one of my most important jobs as their mom is to know when it is time.
Our new marriage made us feel like we had won the jackpot with each other, except for occasionally when we felt more like we were washed up gamblers who kept putting all they had on the table but walked away broke. Overall – the wins outnumbered the losses, but I found myself needing more - needing a new dimension to our relationship. Mashed potatoes are good – but gravy makes them better. We were good – but I wanted better. I wanted a new challenge, I wanted a new level of sharing life with him, I wanted to commit even more deeply to each other. I wanted a baby.
It took longer than we thought. So long we doubted it would ever happen. I knew a baby would stretch our relationship, but I didn’t know that the possibility of never having a baby would sieve through our marriage like a giant colander. Our future without children looked to me a lot like a red bud tree before March.
Years passed and just when we thought the barren branches would never bloom –two pink little lines on a pregnancy test ushered in a new season for us - one filled of growth, exploding with beauty, and smelling fresh and new. The news of our coming twins eclipsed everything for us. The universe had a new rotation and although the transition jolted us a bit, we loved the shift.
But the night before the twins were born, I lay in my queen sized Navajo comforter covered bed I grabbed my husband’s hand and briefly mourned the end of the before kids part of our marriage. I had no doubts, no worries, and I welcomed the unknown but certain changes we’d face in the parenting part of our relationship; but what we’d had up to that point had been remarkable, wonderful…and a little part of me hated to leave it behind. But I knew it was time.
As I cared non-stop for two tiny beings whose sole dependency fell on me, I had a revelation. Maybe it was more of a realization. I realized I had been a baby. A baby who woke my mother night after night needing comforted and fed. A baby who needed burped and changed. A baby whose mother starred at me with that love drunk look on her face while rubbing my fuzzy head until I fell asleep in her arms.
My children wouldn’t remember those first days of unceasing attention or care, nor will they understand the pleasure and agony of my love for them until the day their own red bud bursts with blooms. Then they will know. Then they will see. Then they will understand.
Our parents all took turns coming to see our life in full bloom, much like the spring season that served as the stage for our new family. My Nana came too. She flew for her very first and only time to visit us. My husband amazed her with his agile, speedy, diapering techniques. One brow lifted and her eyes brightened as she told me … “When your daddy was just a baby, I had to take the laundry in once a week to the wash.” Then she began to refer to herself in the third person. I knew the memory provoked her …”Corene took the baby and the laundry, and your Papa Bob went to the barbershop and had a cut and a coke. Well, if Corene had it to do it over again, she would hand Bob that wiggly baby to watch while he enjoyed his coke.” She finished with an assertive head nod. As I watched my husband wrangle both babies at once – pride infused my love for my diapers and wipes superhero to terrifying levels.
The same Papa who’s fathering prowess came into question, would drive for an hour to fix my car, pick me up, or bring me chips and cheese dip throughout my teenage years. Though I cannot speak for him as a father, as a grandfather he gallantly redefined the role. We’d often drive with the widows down. He loved smelling the different seasons. I remember his face fashioning into the most pleasurable expression as he inhaled spring’s ethereal perfume, summer’s verdant aroma, fall’s tangy fragrance, and winter’s crisp scent. He loved it when the seasons changed. He loved the coming and going of them all. He knew how to both accept and let go. The day after my wedding, I had to start learning the lesson he’d worked to teach me. He died suddenly. Unexpected.
I like the red bud only when it’s blooming. If I were the designer of trees, I would have the tree wear the color all year. I can accept change – but I don’t like letting go. I have a cedar box full of worthless trinkets. Broken jewelry, plastic and wooden rings, watches that don’t work, and a lapel pin in the shape of a Viking. They represent more than a memory – they remind me of people – none of which I want to take out of my cedar box. One of the watches that doesn’t work was a gift my husband gave me on my birthday in 9th grade. I keep it to remember my husband at 14. To remember how he changed my life so long ago. We’ve shared many birthdays since then, but this last one was especially fabulous. It was the kind of day I wish I had the ability to Zip-lock and freeze so I could dethaw it and enjoy later - my children’s voices singing to me, my husband’s arms holding me. I know someday it would taste even better than it did the first time.
Much like that spring week I spent with Nana. During her stay a tornado launched newscasters into ceaseless coverage of the weather as sirens sounded. We left her with a baby in each arm, in front of a video camera we failed to turn off in the excitement as we went outside to evaluate for ourselves. Later watching her attempt at comforting the infants while terror hijacked her nerves remains one of the funniest things I have seen in my life. She’s gone now – and I didn’t know how high those memories would appreciate.
The red bud was a gift to my family – in honor of Nana when she passed. Today the blooms cover her tree. Papa would appreciate the display – but would understand when the vivid pinks and purples gave way to the rich green leaves. He would tell me to not be anxious when the leaves cannot hold their places any longer and leave the tree bare, naked, and vulnerable. It’s the accepting and letting go of the seasons that makes the red bud thrive. Spring always gives way to summer, summer eventually submits to fall, and fall never fails to relinquish its stay for winter to weigh in with its heavy pause on all life. But winter, like a gentleman brings spring in on his arm. And she - she dresses and drapes everything in her rich textures and vivid designs. I love her work – but know I cannot zip-lock or freeze it, nor can I hide it away in my little cedar box.
Each night I tuck my kids in their beds: the blue comforter one, the sports themed one, the Bohemian colored one, and the white tiger themed one. Each night – for just a moment – I mourn the passing of a day I will never have with them again. I have no doubts, no worries, and I welcome the unknown but certain changes we’ll face in the many coming seasons of our relationship as a family; but what we’ve had up to this point has been remarkable, wonderful…and a little part of me hates to leave each passing season behind. But one of my most important jobs as their mom is to know when it is time.
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