Yesterday, I sat with my kids in a planetarium awaiting the start of a laser show. Just them and me. No one in my lap, no one crying, no one strapped to my front while standing in the back corner, separated from my family, swaying gently but intently, praying a baby will stay asleep.
All of us in a row, four kids and me, anticipated the 40-minute program. As the woman with the microphone made the opening announcements, pointing out the lighted exit, no surge of panic zipped through my body: I wasn’t worried about which children I’d take with me if one started to cry. I didn’t have to contemplate which kids I’d leave—are they old enough? safe enough?—to stay without me sitting protectively next to them.
I reached over to grab my youngest daughter’s hand when the lights dimmed, but she took my arm with her two little hands, lifted it up, and placed it with a declaration back into my own lap, “this is my chair.”
Sadness ran full speed in front of me, she doesn’t need me?, but like a flash, it was gone before my brain had a chance to fully register it. So I sank into the seat, warm and happy, pleased and surprised. I just might enjoy this.
For this moment, what I’d heard for so many years, was coming true:
… to read the rest of the essay, about what I needed to be reminded of as a third (and forth!) time mom, and the words I longed to hear as a new mom, please click here.
As always, thank you for reading.