A Mother's Meditation

My little girl’s breath smells of garlic, pumpkin and corn. The scent of hummus, roasted regional farm pumpkin and corn I fed her at first seemed to also be coming out of the tail end of her diaper, but I realize it’s just her breath. She is nestled beside me in our warm bed, trying to head off to her nap as we listen to the first severe storm of 2010 beating our skylights. The dying light of late November and Daylight Savings, now just a memory, have allowed to this second nap which has taken hold despite the thunder and lightning. She stays asleep as the hail arrives. Pelting, torrential, angry arms of it lash the house and sky. An involuntary prayer flits inside my head- may the roof and windows be strong and solid. This is expected to be the biggest November storm in 6 years, but it’s nothing like the invasion motherhood makes on your identity.

Being a mother causes you to contemplate everything from childhood, be it recalled or strangely, forgotten and blocked out. It’s a chance at a “do-over” if failed decades characterize your past. It’s also a chance to watch the influx of language, movement, song and the senses as they arrive. Where once the lemon was tasteless, it is now truly sour. How cupcakes didn’t used to be desirable is forgotten. The mimicked action of inhaling fresh rosemary now has a genuine olfactory consequence.

Our little branch of May is now a year and a half into the voyage of life. She delights in the simplest things and bathes us in the rays of her wonder, laughter and mischief.