So it happened that, as we were starting off on a road trip, a few weeks after the play, Ben and I were belting out lyrics at the top of our lungs:
"...In the arms of my love, I'm flying,
"over mountain and meadow and glen,
"and I like it so well, that for all I can tell,
"I may never come down again!
"I may never come down to earth again!"
But every time we reached those last two lines, we were interrupted by an adamant little voice, who insisted, "No, 'I may yes come down again!'" There was no other way to pacify her and to restore harmony to the atmosphere within the car than to alter the lyrics to her liking.
I suddenly felt that Ben and I were riding a red balloon, buoyant with helium. The hiss of the gas that had filled it - those dumb jokes that had first drawn us to one another, the pitter-pattering excitement of courtship, the silliness of those newly married, figuring-things-out days - was all fairly fresh. We were still riding, somewhat, on the rush of new love. And looking down from this imaginary reverie, I saw this determined little person, clinging for all she was worth to the balloon's ribbed ribbon.
She wasn't thinking about her mom and dad floating away, of course. I'm pretty sure that her main concern was the idea of Cinderella and her prince floating permanently out of reach. Then the show would be over and who would wear the tiara? But to me, she was holding, white-knuckled, to that balloon's string, giving it a little yank, even. She was making sure that her parents would not float beyond her reach, that, to the fullest of her abilities, she would be mirrored on every facet of our lives.
Being a mom, for me, has been all about re-realizing things. Each time an idea re-enters my head through a new door or an open window, it stains the walls with greater tenacity, settles deeper into the cracks between the floorboards, or leaves a more lingering scent than it did before. That morning in the car, revising the lyrics of "Ten Minutes Ago" to fit my three-year-old's criteria, was one of those moments for me. Not for the first time, but more deeply than ever before, I realized that much of what was between Ben and me, and where we would take those things, was not only ours - not anymore.
We would - and will - continue to renew the helium that lifts us, little sips at a time, through stolen moments together; a thoughtful note here and a little act of kindness there; endless discussions about the things that make us tick; quiet dinner dates, though not without the occasional glance at our phones to check the time or for any news from the babysitter. And maybe someday, years yonder, I'll realize that we were never riding a balloon at all, but a kite; that we have been riding on a breath of wind, and that those little hands on the line, those little heels digging divots into the ground have carried us higher, further, and more steadily than all the freedom of our unshackled wanderings could have done.
Just a thought.
I suddenly felt that Ben and I were riding a red balloon, buoyant with helium. The hiss of the gas that had filled it - those dumb jokes that had first drawn us to one another, the pitter-pattering excitement of courtship, the silliness of those newly married, figuring-things-out days - was all fairly fresh. We were still riding, somewhat, on the rush of new love. And looking down from this imaginary reverie, I saw this determined little person, clinging for all she was worth to the balloon's ribbed ribbon.
She wasn't thinking about her mom and dad floating away, of course. I'm pretty sure that her main concern was the idea of Cinderella and her prince floating permanently out of reach. Then the show would be over and who would wear the tiara? But to me, she was holding, white-knuckled, to that balloon's string, giving it a little yank, even. She was making sure that her parents would not float beyond her reach, that, to the fullest of her abilities, she would be mirrored on every facet of our lives.
Being a mom, for me, has been all about re-realizing things. Each time an idea re-enters my head through a new door or an open window, it stains the walls with greater tenacity, settles deeper into the cracks between the floorboards, or leaves a more lingering scent than it did before. That morning in the car, revising the lyrics of "Ten Minutes Ago" to fit my three-year-old's criteria, was one of those moments for me. Not for the first time, but more deeply than ever before, I realized that much of what was between Ben and me, and where we would take those things, was not only ours - not anymore.
We would - and will - continue to renew the helium that lifts us, little sips at a time, through stolen moments together; a thoughtful note here and a little act of kindness there; endless discussions about the things that make us tick; quiet dinner dates, though not without the occasional glance at our phones to check the time or for any news from the babysitter. And maybe someday, years yonder, I'll realize that we were never riding a balloon at all, but a kite; that we have been riding on a breath of wind, and that those little hands on the line, those little heels digging divots into the ground have carried us higher, further, and more steadily than all the freedom of our unshackled wanderings could have done.
Just a thought.
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