A Mother's Wants

I look at you, Daughter, and marvel at your metamorphosis after eight short months. The way the corners of your mouth now twitch just before you are about to laugh. How your tiny toes curl in anticipation as you prepare to nurse and how you squeal like a parakeet when daddy comes through the back door. You are beginning to craft your own distinct personality. At night I rock you in the leather chair and press my nose to your head to inhale the scent of you. I know you won’t always let me cradle you like this. Every day, you become more alert and aware and interactive. You are slowly learning what sounds to startle at, what surprises to smile at, and what ideal gouging targets my eyes make for your curious fingers. I get the sense you have already figured out that orange “mush” makes you glad while green “mush” makes you gag. I swear you eyed me with blatant suspicion the other day when I pretended to ingest pureed peas with a gusto usually reserved for sprinkle donuts.

I wonder how your dad and I can possibly teach you all of the intangibles you will need to know when we are both still learning ourselves. Right now, the lessons are easy. Triangle, apple, yellow, duck, ball, wet. The lessons get harder and the directions more complicated. At home, you adore this mini toy house that echoes back to you in opposites: “Door Open / Door Closed.” “Light On / Light Off”. I find myself wanting to warn you. Life isn’t always one or the other. There’s a lot of grey. There’s a lot in the middle.

As your mother, I suppose I cannot shield you from pain, disappointment, and even danger any more than I can promise you joy and fulfillment. However, I can promise that I will still attempt to control these things out of love and instinct despite knowing that I am trying to control the wind. Your defeats will be my own and your celebrations will be my elations. And while you are small and depend on me to carry you up the stairs and fetch your toys and read your books, I want to tell you a few things. Since in ten, fifteen, twenty years, you may not be as apt to listen. Remember our conversation. Remember my words.

I want you to know that it is okay to be different – that you don’t have to wear the “right” shoes, listen to pop music or worship the color pink. In fact, you will find as an adult that those individuals who buck convention are often a lot more interesting to have over for dinner.

I want you to travel. Be open. Form opinions and ask questions.

I want you to realize you possess the inner strength and courage to pursue the dreams you know in your soul you are meant to pursue. Don’t let fear bog you down. Fight for your passions early and often.

I want you to trust others and hold dear the friends who make you laugh.

I want you to try sardines, beets, and sauerkraut every five years... just to see.

I don’t want you to rush into love, but when you do make sure you find someone with kind eyes and a good heart. If this someone makes you feel beautiful and safe and inspired AND fills your car up with gas after you have been dating a year, you have found the one.

I want you to experience a broken heart. Just once.

I want you to pay attention to red flags and small print. And avoid short-cuts through alleys.

I want you to wear wide-brimmed hats on the seashore and scarves in the winter.

I want you to keep a Kleenex in your pocket and an extra tampon in your purse.

I want you...no, implore you, to learn how to properly throw a baseball. I don’t care if you are an athlete, musician, or spelling bee wizard, but turn your shoulders and follow through.

I want you to read more than you watch. In actual books that smell like libraries.

I want you to tell the truth.

I want you to go on long walks at dusk, especially in the fall when the leaves are falling, the air nips at your cheeks and a melancholic hush has settled over the world.

I want you to keep a journal and reread your nibbles of consciousness every year on some random Tuesday night when you are tempted to turn on the TV.

I don’t want you to worry about perfection. It is unattainable and frankly not very fun. It is our dents and dings that are the most endearing to those we love.

I want you to splurge on pedicures, cashmere and organic vegetables.

I want you to smile when you make eye contact with strangers. Unless they look creepy, smell like cigarettes, or are wearing a sleeveless undershirt. I realize this may indirectly contradict the whole embrace all free-thinkers rule from above, but I trust your judgment.

I want you to learn a second language and challenge your parents to follow their own advice. And yes, you have my permission to speak to us exclusively in Spanish until we have complied.

I want you to stand up for yourself, but master the delicate technique of arguing your point with logic versus volume.

I want you to realize that things are nice, but memories are better.

I want you to know we are all tested and deflated at one time or another. Take comfort that your ascent can be gradual and communal and will offer up vantage points along the way that will allow you to glance back and relish in your progress.

I want you to have faith that the hardest, most painful moments in your life will yield the most personal growth and sweet rewards. Be patient. Nothing is permanent while we are walking the earth. Most everything will make sense afterwards.

I want you to understand from a young age the power and grace that comes with giving and that pure inspiration can be deliciously infectious.

Most of all, Daughter, I want you to remember you are entirely unique, 100% worthy, and even if you utterly ignore all of the above, hopelessly loved.