Sharing Space - paws and pausing

 My Amy wanted to share a bit of my space again.  More about My Amy, and a list of her posts here.



Paws and I hit up our favorite breakfast spot yesterday morning. On the way into the restaurant, she ran ahead of me: a long-legged figure in small jean shorts, purple Crocs, and a blue and white striped shirt with ruffled shoulders.

Her shorts were too big and when they started falling down she stopped and tried to hike them up. I flipped over the waistband and on she ran.

So simple. And yet.

It gave me pause.

Sitting in the booth and coloring with her, cutting up her food, asking her to sit back down when she’s eating, giving Eskimo kisses: all of it was a moment of revelry for me, like I haven’t felt in a while.

The question that has been rattling around in my head for months again rose to the surface. Do I want to be a mother?



Since the first time Younger Girl fell asleep in my arms I have wanted to have a child of my own.

I love being with the kids who are my nieces and nephews.

The tantrums, the fights, the piggyback rides, the explanations. Love it.

The questions that come from nowhere. Once, when she was about 4, Older Girl turned to me, twisted up her face, and said Amy, why do soldiers like to fight?

Try fielding that one.

The delights that come from nowhere. After a particularly fun outing, the Seattle Boy asked me can you be my mom?

And explaining to a six year old why that made me cry was a little tricky.

These 16 kids range in age from 13 to six months, and they own my heart.

I have climbed trees and chased chickens with them.

I have made them peanut butter sandwiches, folded their laundry, and soothed them after bad dreams. We have had dance parties. We have gone on trips.

We have talked about everything from starting middle school and bullies to why ladybugs fly and how come it’s naptime even though THEY’RE NOT TIRED.

They’ve invited me to their graduations, told me about their friends, and blown their noses on my pants.

They have taught me a million times over the joyful parts of being a parent. The best and hardest parts, in snippets and weekends and hours.



Now I’ve got kids whose permission slips I sign.

I call their doctor’s offices, fight to get them the support they need, talk to their counselors, and worry about them at night.

I buy them birthday presents and take them to lunch.

Sometimes they call just to shout at me. Sometimes they want to show me their art projects. Sometimes I am the one they blame.

I try to imagine the best futures possible for them.

Then I try to keep the promise I made: I’ll do whatever I can to make that future happen.

They have taught me a million times over the gut-wrenching parts of being a parent. The parts that keep all parents hyper-vigilant and waiting for the morning.

We talk about everything from if they are happy where they are and what they’re worried about to what the coolest part of school is so far and what they had for lunch that WAS SO GROSS.

Sometimes they cry like their hearts are breaking right in front of me.

Try fielding that one.

I’ll never get it right. But at least I’ll be there.



My mom has always told me two things about having kids: there’s never a perfect time for it, not really. Better times than others, sure, but never a perfect one. And that being a parent is the hardest job a person can have. One that is, in the end, completely worth it.

Do I want to be a mother?

Aren’t I sort of one already?

On a strictly-part-time, not-the-total-real-deal-because-my-heart-isn’t-actually-walking-around-on-two-feet, you-can’t-totally-know-what-it’s-like-til-you-have-one-yourself kind of basis of course, but still.

If my mother, and my sister-in-law, and my dear friends are any example, being a mom is about loving someone else so much that you’d lie down in traffic for them.

Check.

It’s about being there for the big moments and the rough ones and the fun ones and the amazing ones.

Check.

It’s about the worrying, the protecting, the conversations. 

It is messy. It is hard.

It is incredible.

Check, check, check.


Last night, putting Paws to bed, she refused to let me snuggle her. Nothing new, she’s been doing that for several months now. So while she curled up with her baby doll and tucked it in, I lay next to her and softly sang some off-key lullabies.

To be honest, I’m not sure that Momma, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys was originally intended as a lullaby but hey, if it works then go with it….even though the first time she sings ‘little warm puppies and children and girls of the night’ at preschool will be interesting.

Just as I think she’s dropping off, she rolls towards me. Her small warm hands reach out for me and she cradles my face.

I lean in and kiss her sweaty forehead, smelling the soap that we used to wash her face clean during her bath.

Mamy, she mutters. Is ok, Mamy. Love you.

Love you too, Bug, I whisper back. More than anything. Always.

Messy. Hard. Incredible. 


~Amy