Sweet 'n' Sour

There are four.

But I only tell people about the three they can see.  The fourth came first.  He brought innocence and purity, which he took when he left.  I haven’t told the other three about the first.  Because I don’t know how to explain about really bad things.

When the next one came I stupidly forgot to hide the soft part of me.  I left it exposed, like the new skin underneath a band-aid.   I thought that nothing could hurt me any more.

I was wrong.

He cooed like a wounded owl.   And he didn’t speak.  Didn’t have a voice of his own.  So I gave him mine knowing he might still never know what he meant to me.     

The next one clung to me as if we were suddenly reunited after a long trip apart.  Never leaving my side, resting in the place on my chest that seemed designed for the shape of his head.  Asking me if I loved him over and over again until it became a game that we played.  Silly to everyone else but fiercely serious to him.  Making sure that I understood I could never leave him. 

Then, a surprise.  The last one born on the day the first was supposed to be.  Coming into the world warm and kicking and squirming with life.  Joy and guilt combining in a sweetly painful way like cinnamon gum. And in spite of everything, filling me with irrepressible hope.   

For all four.

Tamar, Boston, MA, stay-at-home mom

Sweet 'n' Sour

The minute Charlotte was born - 9:14 a.m. - my life changed.

I'd just gotten used to playing house with my husband.  We were like kids, inclined to sleep late, leaving dirty dinner dishes in the sink 'til morning, going out to eat when the urge struck. Now, not only was it impossible to finish the dishes, but I couldn't fold laundry, go to the bathroom or go anywhere without her crying, without her always needing something else.

One night during that first upside-down week at home with Charlotte, I exploded when my husband came through the door. "If she has a baby when she's like sixteen, I'm not helping her with it!" He looked very puzzled. "After all the years of taking care of her," I sobbed, trying to explain,  "I'll want my life back. I don't like this new one very much."

She's almost sixteen now. She hasn't had a baby but she does have a boyfriend. He came over for dinner last week and they both helped with the dishes afterwards. She's talking about college. Sometime during her fifth grade year, I was stunned to realize that 6,570 days of full-time parenting is all you get: 18 years times 365 days. At that point I was already halfway through my tenure as Charlotte's full-time parent. I cried hard. Now 1,095 is all that is left. How will I adjust to the change when she leaves?

Lisa, Norwich, VT, part-time crepe maker, full-time mom