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nervously, wistfully, thankfully
February 18, 2015

Everyone says

Last year at this time we were skiing in the streets.

Either nervously, wistfully or thankfully. We might not have the adverb in common but we do have the noticing in common: it’s unusually warm for February in western Montana. My garlic is coming up, my fruit trees budding. People are jogging in shorts. There are rumors of early bear activity in the hills.

There is a new space to our days that we don’t dare fill up. Things feel smoother than they have since we had our first kid seven years ago. Our daughters pick out their clothes and dress themselves, unload the dishwasher, feed the animals, remind me to return library books, argue and work it out before I even know what it is about.

We revel in the gloriousness of existing in this state of funky symbiosis, a new place on our life map. Things feels easy in ways they weren’t for years: we aren’t needed like we were; our offspring play together for hours in imaginary worlds and help themselves to snacks. And things feel hard in ways they weren’t for years: navigating this world where my daughters are further away than on my hip or further away than I can shout, bounding up the hillside deep into their own, bright self-discovery.

Margot: OK honey, and what would you like to eat?

Ruby: Oregano Soup

Margot, whispering and out of character: No Ruby, it has to be something I can spell. Like Lucy Soup or Phoebe Soup or…

Ruby: Oh ok. I’d like Ellie Soup please. And a side of Daddy Ice Cream.

There are still plenty of MAMAAAAAs singing from their bedroom as they sort out who gets to wear the tall green socks or sob over Ruby drawing a kitty in Margot’s secret diary without asking. While I am not needed for seatbelt buckling or baby wearing, I am needed in problem solving how to Margot might react to the kid who makes fun of beets in her lunchbox. I am needed to smooth out the “puffy parts” of Ruby’s tights every morning. I take my position as short-order cook for the throngs of their friends who come over. I braid hair and remind them to chew with their lips together. I am now the person they will remember when they are grown and talking about their earliest childhood memories to their friends at a bar.

I remember 5 and 7. My mom in the kitchen humming, slicing pickles, making sandwiches. My next door neighbor drowned a litter of kittens in our creek. Biking circles in the cul de sac, pink streamers from my handlebars. Skipping, my hand entirely inside my dad’s grip as we cleared football fields with each hop. Uno with my little brother. Our tree fort. My canopy bed. Strawberry Shortcake dolls. My babysitter Pam and her teal sweater. Driving with the top down on our red VW rabbit. My kindergarten teacher was like a perfect cup of hot cocoa on a snowy day. My first grade teacher was like the video I recently saw where the mama Osprey pecked her young to death.

Some things don’t change and I like those things just as much as I like the changes. I still carry my kids from their bed (or my bed) to the living room where they wake up in my lap every morning. I still call them Bug and Sweet Potato and they still like it. I still wash their clothes, make their meals, kiss their freckles and wrap my arms more than once around their bodies for a hug. They still think I know everything.

Ruby: Mama, the earth has birthdays like me so is it growing taller and bigger too? Does it get growing pains?

My mom just visited for a week and I wish she lived next door. That will happen in a few years when my parents retire and return to Missoula. She still calls me Burb. She still hums while cutting pickles. She dipped a fine tooth comb into a glass of water and smoothed my daughters’ hair into high ponytails. Ouch! they yelled and then asked for it again and again. I remember that whole scene on my own head like it happened this morning.

Margot and Ruby move about like strong, confident children. I *know* they are strong, confident children but it’s the way they move about lately — engaging with people and their own opinions, that makes me get it. The thing older parents tell you

Don’t blink. She’ll be moving away from home before you know it.

The cliché is so damn right on, its sweetness squeaks in my teeth like those leftover conversation hearts.

 

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33 Comments


Molly
February 18, 2015 at 12:58 PM

Whaaaaa, I’m in exactly the same place with my two girls: nearly 5 and nearly 8.
The exhalation post the baby years, the liberty, the awe at their personhoods, the heart-squeezing realisation that they will grow, they will leave … I can’t imagine it, but I can see it coming.
I hope I’m more ready for it than I have been for the thought of it.



B. Holmes
February 18, 2015 at 1:35 PM

So spot on Nici. Been feeling the same way about my boys (7&10) they are so independent now & somedays it’s hard to let go and let their wings spread. While other days it so satisfying to watch! Just one of those parent things I guess. Learning to let go a little so they can become themselves. .. Looks beautiful there. We are having an early Spring here in Oregon as well. Enjoy.



Christi
February 18, 2015 at 2:20 PM

Beautiful! Hold on to those beautiful moments. My oldest child is 16 and it really is like I blinked and he was grown. I have found it truly is a roller coaster, times where we are putting our hands in the air and enjoying the ride and other times where we are holding on for dear life hoping we all make it out alive. The trick is to find the good in all those moments.



Abby
February 18, 2015 at 5:17 PM

This hurts to read. You’re putting words to the truths in my life that I’m not ready for.
My girls have strong bodies, strong minds, but was it so long ago that they needed me to survive?
But also, it feels good to read about other mamas who are past the baby wearing part of life.



April
February 18, 2015 at 6:09 PM

You make motherhood sound like poetry.

I travel to Montana (which I have a not-so-secret love for) for work and always keep my eyes peeled for you when I’m in Missoula. Hoping I will bump into you some day so I can say hi and thank you for your beautiful writing!



    dig
    February 23, 2015 at 9:56 AM

    I hope so too! 🙂

Jaim
February 18, 2015 at 8:55 PM

Sometimes, when I leaf through old pictures, my heart actually aches. No one ever told me about that…
Jaim



Aimee
February 18, 2015 at 9:44 PM

We are having the same mild weather, but we get that week or two every February which psychs people out before normal late winter/early spring gets back to normal. But it sure is fun to take nothing for granted and enjoy the bit of warmth 🙂



Sarah
February 18, 2015 at 10:14 PM

Nici, nearly every post of yours makes me tear up at just how full life is– of love, sorrow, emotion, whatever it may be. Your writing is so poignant, I wish each post were longer, so I could curl up with it and savor your words. I just love coming here to a new story. It’s such a treat.



Dave Van Nice
February 19, 2015 at 7:26 AM

I always enjoy your posts. You have a great way of describing the wonderful little things in life that so many folks miss as the years fly by. Thanks for brightening my day!



trbholt
February 19, 2015 at 7:43 AM

“My mom just visited for a week and I wish she lived next door. That will happen in a few years when my parents retire and return to Missoula” – IT will happen….I love you Burb!



Zoë
February 19, 2015 at 9:43 AM

This is so sweet and wistful. We are almost there with our three, who are 10, (newly) 7, and 4. My youngest is still needy (and I don’t mean that in a negative way) and my 7 yr old still has her moments (I don’t think she’s ever gotten over being the middle child), and it is difficult right now because I can’t fulfill my part of it due to ill health. While I do relish that little extra burst of independence I see each day, I know I will miss it when Violet no longer says, “Uppy!” when she wants to be held. But it is such a privilege to watch these little people become bigger people, and so much fun.



    dig
    February 23, 2015 at 9:56 AM

    Oh the Uppy! Ruby still says it regularly. Love it.

    And, mama, you ARE fulfilling your part just as you are. That’s all any of us can ask of ourselves: that we do the best with what we’ve got. Our situations are different and love conquers all. xo

Marti
February 19, 2015 at 11:10 AM

First of all, that last picture is AWESOME. I’m in a similar place with my own seven year old. The other morning while waiting in car line at school I had her notebook out to review spelling words. She told me to put it away quickly because she didn’t want a certain girl to see she had a picture of a ninja turtle drawn on the back. When I asked why she said “Because she’ll make fun of me for it.” It made me sad that we could only talk about it and I couldn’t just go fix the problem myself. I think I have the perfect kid. She likes Star Wars and My Little Pony, ballet and karate. I wish all the kids were as nice and understanding as she is but they aren’t and it’s hard to see her little heart broken some days.



sheryl hutchinson
February 19, 2015 at 11:27 AM

Oh you are never ready for when they leave… I have five kids – one son and four daughters. My oldest daughter is away at college and I miss her terribly. But of course she is at the right place for her right now. My son is also on his own and away at college. Miss him too. I m savoring my two 11 year olds and fifteen year old (well.. ok… most days) because there time is acoming to leave before I know it!



Kate
February 19, 2015 at 1:01 PM

Beautiful Nici!
Am still in the trenches of need/physical exhaustion/not-on-but-near my hip with our youngest… but I see that light at the end of the tunnel. The one that means more time for ME and taking care of things at a larger distance for my kids… all good things, but the knowledge of it going warp speed makes me sad & hopeful at the same time. (soapful? LOL) I am so excited about knowing my kids as they turn into big people with their own dreams & ideas & ways of moving in the world.
I love your writing so!
xo
Kate



Jill
February 19, 2015 at 1:32 PM

This post made my heart squirm in good and sad ways. When my sister and I were 5 and 7, our parents’ marriage was crumbling. It hurts that most of the memories I can conjure up relate to that, instead of slumber parties and riding my bike and watching my mom cook. This realization has inspired me to have a sit-down girls’ night with my sister, where we can relive and hopefully remind the other of the good memories. Thanks as always for your words, Nici.



    dig
    February 23, 2015 at 9:53 AM

    I have periods in my life where I wish my memories were different. I believe we all do. But the saving grace is that we have NOW and we couldn’t have now as it is if we hadn’t followed our own unique life path to this place. I love the idea of sitting with your sister and remembering the subtle lovely times that your memories have shadowed. That’s good and important work that we should all consider.

      Jill
      February 27, 2015 at 9:06 AM

      Thank you for your response, Nici. I agree wholeheartedly- I can think of millions of ways my life is better because of the way things worked out. Thank you for the reminder. <3

Jen Mann
February 19, 2015 at 6:53 PM

This really, really spoke to me.



Liz Olson
February 19, 2015 at 11:55 PM

“I am now the person they will remember when they are grown and talking about their earliest childhood memories to their friends at a bar.” This. My guy is almost 5 and the realization that this is the me he will remember hits home on a daily basis. It’s a great reminder to to take a few deep breaths and build positive memories. As always, so well written and beautiful to read.



Kate
February 20, 2015 at 8:12 PM

This is exactly what I needed to read as I am in throes of early childhood parenting with a newborn three-year-old. Trying to enjoy the present and be mindful but it is oh so hard sometimes!



Flower Patch Farmgirl
February 20, 2015 at 8:14 PM

You have such a way, lady.
(Will you ever tire of me saying so?)



Flower Patch Farmgirl
February 20, 2015 at 8:16 PM

Wait, one more thing.
I am utterly gobsmacked that you wake your girls each morning. This is a life I do not know. My kids are my eternal alarm clock. Why.



    dig
    February 23, 2015 at 9:48 AM

    We wake Margot every morning. Oh mama: Ruby is our alarm clock. She is usually already in bed with us and we have been encouraging her to lay still and quiet for a good while before we get up with her. And that’s when we snuggle and wake up. Margot usually calls to me when she wakes and she dives from the top bunk into my arms. 🙂 There’s the deets fer ya. xoxo

fishinglovers.net
February 22, 2015 at 12:38 AM

Great, thanks for sharing this post.Really looking forward to read more. Will read on…



Maria B
February 22, 2015 at 9:32 PM

So many similarities in our lives. My daughters are 6.5 and 4.5 (gotta add the .5 or they’d be disappointed.) It’s equal parts glorious and at the same time, depressing. My girls are strong, for sure, but also still tiny, which is prolonging the carries and such. One of my friends has such big kids they’ve been barely holdable since they were 3. I would die! Anyway, so many similarities….except for the mild winter part. Definitely no mild winter here.



    dig
    February 23, 2015 at 9:50 AM

    I hear you: I still carry both my kids all the time! I am grateful for their little frames. I love the hugs where legs wraps around my waist. Margot promised me she’d do that until she was 17. 😉

Jennifer
February 23, 2015 at 7:33 PM

I just love this. It’s so relatable. Your reflections on being 5 and 7. The sweet and tinged memories of the kindergarten and first grade teachers. Biking. Skipping with your father. Streamers off of your handlebars. Uno. Your mom humming. We all have details of childhood burned into our souls. And here our kids are in that element.

I snuggle deep with my 6 yo every night. And if I don’t, my husband does. Sometimes we both do and call it a baby cake sandwich. I never second guess my mama gut to do this, giving her the sweet end to the every day – letting her fall deep to sleep with her legs draped across mine. I don’t want to think of the moment where *blink, it’s gone*. For now, it’s ours to own.



LeeH
February 24, 2015 at 9:06 AM

What a delightful picture. I love the way they are draped on each other yet looking in different directions. Together yet not, so sweet.
I was not ready for it to be over, loved the early years so much. But seeing strong, confident adults is pretty nice too



lo
February 24, 2015 at 12:05 PM

LOVE that last photo of the girls! You captured their spunkiness in every way 🙂



Jess Townes
March 1, 2015 at 6:00 PM

This one hits home. Last night, our youngest (who is 7 for a few more days) fell asleep in our bed, and after staring at his sleeping face and contemplating just letting him stay (he’s the wiggliest and kickiest sleeper you’ve ever met), I picked him up to move him. He woke up and said, “Mama, you can still carry me?” before falling immediately back asleep on my shoulder. I almost can’t. He’s my solid child, full of muscle and the energy to build it, and it won’t be much longer before I can’t carry him, and, because it is simply impossible to stop blinking, not much longer after that that he’ll outweigh me. He’ll be taller than me. Stronger than me. It’s unfathomable, but it will come to be. I find comfort in the fact that every new season has brought more sweetness and wonder than I imagined when I left the last behind. And I love your words that some things won’t change. His freckles. His boundless enthusiasm. I’ll hang onto that. Thanks mama.



Amy
March 2, 2015 at 8:25 PM

Well this just made me cry.
You always put all the feelings into all the words.
Thanks for this. Your girls are sure something special.



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