Wrinkles on My Forehead

Motherhood, embodied

I have wrinkles on my forehead. From wondering what on earth is happening, the miracle of population through each individual mother, father, child. How can this be the grand plan of humanity, for each of us to start as tiny and so needy? From pondering what’s happening in that small and yet exploding mind of yours. How can someone so little be so powerful, so adorable, so loud? How can emotions change from joy to pain to vengeance in seconds, and all over a dump truck toy? From meditating on the evolution of my own heart, and how can I be so lucky to be your mom? How can my heart keep growing day by day, moment by moment, to love you even more?

I have bags under my eyes. From nearly seven years ago, when your late-night dance parties in utero first kept me awake, your bursting energy known to me before I’d seen your face. From the nights you still call out with a nightmare because that Disney villain was the scary kind of weird, because your imagination ran a bit too wild, because the “ghostess” in your closet seemed a tad too real tonight. From staying up late to hang out with your dad after you’re finally quiet and asleep on your own, because he’s still my favorite person, even when we’re both dog tired. From my thoughts that turn to you every night and for forever, with these dark circles that may never fade.

I have a plum bruise on my hip. From walking into a doorknob while I was distracted, trying to remember that thing I needed to put on the grocery list. From holding you even though you’re getting too much grown for that, but I know the days aren’t far away when you won’t want it anymore, so I indulge you. From looking back at your brother while I walked ahead when he told us that story about his day at school and bumping into the dresser, because multitasking is hard, and my brain hasn’t been the same since you two got here.

I have lines around my eyes and mouth. From smiling so big at the thought of your initial arrival and every one since, each school pick-up and morning waking and when you walk back through the door from the yard. From adoring your little face asleep in my arms and the way you still look up at me, when I hold you and we sing. From years now of giggling over your jokes, your stories, your sing-songy inventions. From catching glimpses of your tenderness toward your sibling, your dimples, your cherub cheeks, my heavens. No amount of microneedling or injections can undo the deepened grooves from sweet emotions of watching you grow.

Photo by Heather Green on Unsplash

I have freckles on my shoulders. From afternoons with your “help” watering my plants, when actually you just want to soak your once-white uniform shirt and get your boots muddy and bake a cake from mulch. From that time we went to the neighborhood pool in March, even though it was still too chilly, because I’m trying to say yes and be the fun mom of my aspirations. From countless sunny Saturdays, warm too soon, a clip-on speaker singing movie soundtracks as you ride along for another stroller run around the lake. Your legs are long, and your clicker counts the happy dogs we see; you’ll ride your bike and lead me soon, but for now, I soak up days when you’re buckled in, my captive audience, my precious cargo along for another ride.

I have tension in my neck. From holding you on my right side almost exclusively for the first year of your life, not noticing the way my muscles were adjusting to carry this new, precious package, who grew gradually and also in spurts that would and do astound me. From that weird way I sit when I’m trying to type and you’re climbing on my desk chair—please DO NOT climb on me when I’m typing, ok, well, if you want to sit in my lap for just a minute, that is fine for now. (See “holding you,” above.) From lying on the couch beside you to watch Planet Earth, feeling an unnatural posture taking its toll, knowing you’re so comfy that I don’t want to shift and disrupt us.

I have chipped polish on my toes. From how you wanted mine to match the lavender I painted yours, even though a muted pink is more my style in spring. From being rushed out the door before that event because I was getting my notes ready for the sitter, maybe more detail than she needed, and I shoved my toes into sandals in a flurry. From bending down to read one more story with you, even though I knew the paint hadn’t quite dried yet, because you reminded me how I’d promised one more reading before its library return.

I have grey hair in my part. From age, both lived and felt, how can I really be 36? And some days, how can I only be 36? From months and years of nutrient depletion from pregnancy and nursing, probably, because whatever I had, I gave to you. From trying to age gracefully, modeling what I want you to know about beauty, owning the changes that come with this season of my life, as well as I can.

I have a heart filled up to bursting. From the love that grows and grows, from me to you, and you to me, and our family to each other, day after day. From the ways I see you growing, how can it be, when you just arrived? From the grace you show me when I fail as your mom, your quickness to forgive, your climbing in my lap. From the ways I will love without condition through every phase and stage and lesson of you. From the ways motherhood is a full-life, full-time, full-body role. There are no days off, no stone unturned, not a thing to hold back.

And not a single part of me’s not wholly changed by you.