These Little Waves

Ever since Galit and Nicole posed the question, Who Do You Speak For?, it has been on my mind.

I have an amazing life but it has been touched with tragedy and loss. My heartaches are no deeper than yours.

I share my story here and it helps me more than I ever thought it would.

Or could.

I speak for those who can’t because they are no longer here, those who don’t and those who won’t. I share my story so that I don’t feel so alone in my trials and growth and so that I may help somebody in a similar situation in the process.

I speak for my son in the hope that he will know me better and understand how much he is loved and adored. I write about his childhood and all the amazing (and sometimes trying) moments that bring joy to my life simply because he is here.

Sometimes I worry about revealing too much, but this is my space and these are my thoughts, feelings and memories and I always speak from the heart.

It is the only way I know.

This post is for Galit and Nicole‘s Mother’s Day linky, Who Do You Speak For?. I urge you to share the reasons why you blog and how you use your voice.

I always know what I’m going to get when I visit These Little Waves; a welcome pause from my hectic day and demanding tot, a warm fuzzy feeling in my heart and a smile on my face.

Galit writes the way I hope to someday. Her words are tender and delicious, inviting and rich with description and full of life. Galit’s letter this week is no exception. I dare you to read it and not come away feeling a little warmer from the inside out.

I am very honored to have my friend here today sharing a single moment that helped her through her early days of motherhood.

Dear Beth,

I know that’s your name even though we’ve hardly spoken. Our teaching days were busy and our schedules were different, but I remember you.

We passed in the halls and nodded our Good Mornings. Your flowing dresses, plum colored hair, and black tinted nails a sharp contrast to my crisp lines and sharp edges.

You were vivid.

I think “new” is the best word to describe how I was then. New Minnesotan, new teacher, new mom.

Every week, my lesson plans were thoroughly penned and strictly followed. I wanted to know exactly what to expect – in everything I did.

Motherhood stretched that shade of my skin.

One time, you witnessed this.

Jason brought the girls to school for a visit

Kayli was three-ish and a rule follower, Chloe was one-ish and anything but.

She was mid-tantrum when you walked by.

Belly down, arms flailing, legs kicking, voice rising.

And I? Was lost. Blushing, sweating, tearing. Lost.

I was kneeling next to Chloe when the scent of your perfume, flowers and sunshine and all that is strong, caught me. In return, you caught my eye.

Shoulder back, chin up, smile wide. “Two?” You asked.

“Very.” I answered, brushing a strand of my hair behind one ear when what I really wanted to do was pull it forward, hide behind it.

But you didn’t let me.

You reached for my hand and said, “So been there.” And with one squeeze, you went on, your fuschia parting the way.

I’ve kept that moment of grace wrapped in my heart.

You opened my eyes, didn’t let me take myself too seriously, and reminded me of all that is kindness and all that is grace.

And for that? I thank you, and remember you.

Galit

My Voice

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