A post inspired by and in response to this brilliant young poet, Lily Myers, and her piece – Shrinking Women – because “when you spend enough time sitting across from someone, you pick up their habits.”
Daughter I want you to inherit freedom from me. The freedom to stretch your long, awkward limbs, your mind, your appetite, your wonder at the world and the gift of being woman. So when you sit across from me you know I am comfortable feeling full – of life and love and family and yes, also food.
And sons, I want you to know your mother loved being a woman and wooed you into how to make your wives feel loved.
Not by what size they were or how they applied their make up. But by how they weren’t afraid to snort loud when they laughed. And said yes to the breadbasket when it was passed down the table alongside the soup. And no to the crowd when the crowd wanted her to do, say, or wear what wasn’t her choice. And that you were right there, holding her hand.
Because I hear you listening at me across the kitchen counter top.
At me, you listen.
The active listening of children who are living sponges.
Who don’t so much sip the words that drip from their parents’ lips but swallow and gulp them down with the skill of those accustomed to drinking from fire hoses. Hoses that use all three of their names all at once and over and over again.
Especially on the nights I lose my temper and loose my wild tongue on a trail of collateral damage because really I’m just frayed thin around the edges and haven’t paused to take care of myself today.
So I slow down and practice self care and the fine art of putting myself in a time out until I can be trusted with my tongue.
But watch me anyway because I want to be a better teacher than the tomes of research and recycled opinions that say girls start hating their bodies young and that boys are simply victims of their own thoughts and what the NFL showcases as appropriate behavior.
Watch me, your mother.
I am going to dance with your father tonight.
Right here on the living room rug that is due for a good vacuuming, between the old sofas and the book shelves that line our lives with memories of all the 101 places I’ve read these pages 101 times.
Watch me as I write a new story.
See how dancing can look like doing the dishes together? And passion can feel like opening your arms to the three kids who clamber into a family, group hug.
Or how your dad lies cramped up on that tiny sliver of the mattress to make room for an eight-year-old with bad dreams. How he tells me as I huff and puff about “never enough room,” that as long as his sons want to find comfort in his presence, he will keep folding back the comforter and inviting them in.
Listen at us. It’s OK. We do understand.
That passion is also much more than dad remembering to take out the trash. We can change the channel away from Miley and her manifesto of misplaced more and instead snuggle in here close as we exchange stories of the gift of first kisses one day.
Wildly right and ready passion is never embarrassed.
I can tell you stories one day of how your father kissed me beneath the cherry blossoms and behind that fountain that sings beside the US Capitol building in as many colors as my heart burst into that night.
I know what it feels like to feel full.
It is good.
And I have memories of romance that can curl toes.
I am not afraid of your crush or the days you’re crushed by all the things you feel. Take my hand, I promise to hold on. Even on the days that means letting go.
Take lessons from your mother in the habit of making room for each other and embracing the space with generous love and the freedom to say how you really feel.
Don’t shrink.
Don’t shrink back or away or out of your own convictions, body, life, dreams, or faith.
Hold tight, my darlings.
Don’t be afraid to keep growing bigger.
A bigger view of the world and the remarkably, breathtakingly, just-like-you-in-so-many-ways people that color wildly outside the lines of what you might have expected.
Keep pushing forward into the one, exquisite life that has been given to you. A gift.
And we will sit late around the old kitchen table with its surface graffiti-ed with more days of paint and clay and markers than I can remember. And I will pop corn or pour coke or coffee or trays of fudge or bowls of chips or maybe just an old journal or one night a bag of carrot sticks or Jackson’s obligatory helping of Cheerios and we will remember our story together.
How your mother learned that Jesus loved her first and it cracked opened her joy in loving others with the dirt-smudged hospitality of her grinning children.
Sand between the toes.
Footprints on the front porch and down the hall.
Shoes everywhere and stories welcome.
Big love that makes all the distance between us small and easy to cross.
{Photos by the incomparable Mallory MacDonald.}
Your pictures are amazing. Beautiful family and beautiful writing.
These words today. Yes. And that girl with that poem? Oh. My. Stars. How one so young can echo my own youthful heart amazes me.
Love this, so beautiful! I watched her performance weeks ago, and enjoyed your response just as much:)
Oh, my goodness! Thank you! I read this and am reminded of all the things I did RIGHT! with my kids. Fantastic! Awesome! I love the way you mom yours. :)
Makes me think of this song – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yFwkhn35Szk
I always love your writing… and your cute little ones and your desire to be real and honest and true to all that you do. Thank you.
So Much Yes, my friend! When I watched that young poet recite her piece a few weeks ago I was awed at the passion and truth… and just a little bit scared of it too! Oh to live out loud – on purpose, with purpose in front of our little ones as they grow… it is a gift to them, and to us… as always, you just speak my heart and I agree – those photographs are stellar!!!
Bless you and your Mama heart!
I love your bold statements. Talking to our children and listening to them is the foundation of teaching.
I love this. So many things in this one, once again, touched my heart and warmed my soul. Thank you Lisa Jo Baker for soothing my soul once again.
WOW. Lisa-Jo, just WOW. I hadn’t heard Lily’s performance till just now and–WOW. Thank you so much for sharing. And your response is my own heart-echo. YES. YES. So appreciate you.
Loved, loved, loved! Great flow… Love and passion coming off each line. Thank you!
Love. Love. Love this. Thank you, Lisa Jo. This was a blessing: romantic and real. I am so grateful for you and your heart and the gift you have to write it all down and convey the sweet, savoring and sputtering experience of motherhood. God bless you.
Love these words that satisfy me, as I sit waiting, waiting, for my last baby to have her first baby. Oh, the power of living those daily moments together…thank you for your words.
I love this!
Your passion for your kids and your hubs is as palpable as Lily Myers’. I love the way you define what it means to be a woman, a mother and a wife.
Just this: “Especially on the nights I lose my temper and loose my wild tongue on a trail of collateral damage because really I’m just frayed thin around the edges and haven’t paused to take care of myself today.”
You nailed it. Again :) Always thank you!
When did Zoe turn 13? I missed that. Also, you are radiating with joy in that photograph, someone ought to tell you that. — I may not be a mother for quite some time to go, but I always appreciate your words and learn from them, applying them to this own stage. With some of my best friends graduating so soon, this right here made my eyes water. You summed up so much in so few words: Take my hand, I promise to hold on. Even on the days that means letting go.