One, Two, Three

It's me and Liam, and I admit that I feel a bit unfulfilled, like somebody's missing. As, of course, somebody is. I'm talking about my mother--not my daughter. My mother manages to make any day seem like it's got purpose--even purpose-free, lazy days. She makes holidays, even out of everyday days. She's a light on the earth, honest to God. "You need a day off," she'll pronounce, even if I don't remotely need a day off. "You're a wonderful mother," she tells me, blindsiding me with these simple comments, prompted by nothing. She sees the best in me--more than anyone, more than my kids, even. This weekend she's visiting two of my sisters in Annapolis. I'm so glad they get her for a few days; she's such a gift. I live next door to her--I get her all the time. Forgive this selfish little complaint.

I was reading this blog today--http://mindi11.blogspot.com/--this beautiful blog, packed with beautiful photos of beautiful children. You can tell that this woman is a mother to her kids like mine is to me: that she's a celebrator, a tradition maker, the driving force. A gift. I wonder if her mother's alive? I wonder, sometimes, how I'll change when mine isn't any longer; wonder if I'll become the things I love in her, or if I would've already, even with her at my elbow. I don't know.

I bought Liam his first baseball mitt and bat this morning, though there's no guy around to do the ball-in-the-yard thing--and a light shines on that since we live next door to a former NFL Superbowl player who does the Dad-with-ball thing big time with his (ironically) non-athletic son. Liam would kill for that kind of attention, and he happens to be really athletic (another irony, since I can't catch a ball to save my life, much less my nose or eye glasses.) Fuck it. I bought the stuff, and we went into the yard and I told him everything I knew about using the mitt--everything I could remember my Dad telling me about how you stand:

Keep your legs apart a bit.
Bend your knees.
Elbow up, bat off your shoulder.

One, two, three--kids are suckers for rules. "One," I say, and his legs come apart. "Three." and the elbow lifts up. Just like that, he's staring me down like he actually knows what he's doing. I toss the ball at him--a terrible throw--and THWACK!--he sends that sucker flying above the tree behind me.

"Your children are not your children:
They are the sons and daughters of life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot
visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday. "

Kahlil Gibran