In the Ordinary
Photo Courtesy | Kate Bailey
BY KATE BAILEY
I look at the seat of the grocery cart, and I wonder if she’s getting too big for it. “I can fit, mommy! I’m small!” She’s right. She slides right in, kicks her legs back and forth, and grips the handlebar. Her top lip curls in when she smiles her biggest smile, and sure enough — there it goes. How do her eyes always sparkle like this?
She holds my phone and looks at the list, and we play a game where I give her hints about what we’re looking for next. “What letter does “avocado” start with, Mom? Is it an O or an A? Oh! Here it is!” and she goes “tap-tap, X” to take it off the list.
We weave through the crowd, and as we find our way to the check-out line, she makes a joke about all of the candy. “Woof! We don’t need any of this, do we, Mom? I love it! But we don’t need it. We have plenty of other food at home.”
The gray-haired woman behind me can’t help but chuckle. I wonder if she is a mother, too. In a moment, I imagine how I’ll feel when my daughters are grown and gone, and I see a young mother with her daughter at the grocery store.
I let out a laugh, and kiss my daughter on the forehead. “You are right. And you’re an angel,” I tell her. I feel the cashier smile at us.
For me, extraordinary moments of connectedness have always happened in ordinary moments.
It isn’t the big stuff — birthday parties, Christmas morning, expensive vacations — I have found joy in those moments, sure. I’ve found myself smiling so much it hurts. But true connection? With my husband and my children, it has crept into the mundane. Times that shouldn’t be special but no doubt are.
It happens when I’m driving them to daycare, and my daughter asks me why I don’t have a father.
“I do have a dad, but he died, so he lives in our hearts now.”
“But I don’t want him in my heart — I want him here with us.”
She shares in my sadness while she stares out the window and I turn on my blinker.
The conversation goes as quickly as it comes, “Oh look, Mom! The sun is rising!”
It happens when I’m cooking dinner, and my husband rubs my back while I chop tomatoes. The warmth of his hand melts my bones, and our two-year-old runs around the corner — “No, Daddy! My mommy, Daddy!” and cackles as she pushes her way between us. We kiss, and she squeals.
It happens when we sit on the side of the pool and count new freckles. I kiss each and every one and welcome them. My four-year-old laughs uncontrollably and says, “Have you seen this one, Mommy?” And even if I’ve seen it before, I act like it’s brand new and kiss it just the same.
It happens when she comes out of her room at night for one more hug-kiss-smooch-squeeze, and then talks nonstop for ten minutes. It’s as if everything she’s been thinking in the course of the day just has to get out before she could possibly go to sleep.
“I love cheetahs. I hope they’re nice to me! Some animals like me. Sheep love me! I love sheep, and I love rainbows! I wish you could catch a fish that you could cook. Well, I want it to be a fake fish because I don’t want it to move. It could be a dead fish. I’m not sure if I like dead fish yet. I’ll like them when I grow up, and I’ll be a cooker and a singer, and my sister will be a dancer, and you guys will be the people that watch us. When I’m older, I’ll have a pink phone, and why does ‘phone’ start with a ‘P?’ Very strange! Let’s talk about words…”
You can’t fake connection. You can’t craft it with the perfect trip or write a five year plan for it. The right color birthday balloons won’t do the trick. I think we want it to, don’t we? We want it to come from a single answer, a single choice. That would make it so much easier. But for me, it happens when they are just sitting quietly — working on a puzzle or drawing a picture — and I find myself looking at them with fresh eyes. Suddenly, I’m not tired or overwhelmed or anxious about the future. I’m not running the to-do list in my head or remembering the appointment I forgot to make. I’m not looking for another project in the house or starting a load of laundry. I’m not debating private school versus public school or wondering if we should get swimming lessons. No — I just see them. These beautiful, tiny, perfect creatures. April is uniquely April. Jane is uniquely Jane. Nothing tugs me in any other direction. I put my mouth to the top of each of their heads — I take my time, breathe them in, and kiss their soft hair. I see my husband across the kitchen, and mouth “I love them.” He nods and smiles.
Born and raised in a small town in Georgia, KATE BAILEY is a wife and a mother of two girls, Jane and April. She works in the field of personalized learning in secondary education. Her mission is to find the beauty in the ordinary, wonderful, and difficult moments of parenthood as a way to connect us all and validate each of our journeys.