“Mama, if it weren’t for the Internet, you and Mani wouldn’t even be together,” mine said in bed last night, after cracking an egg on her own head, creating her very first blog post, and belting out Adele in a long, hot shower. It was the kind of day I thought would never end, and then it did, and I softened then, tired enough to fall asleep next to her in my jeans and sweatshirt.
Earlier, she realized she’d be with her dad on Mother’s Day, and madly crossed out “Mama” in her calendar. Later it dawned on me that he’d be out of the country on Father’s Day, so I suggested we just make it up since these days are made up to begin with, and swap them out–Father’s Day in May, Mother’s Day in June.
All the ups and downs and all-arounds finally settling into heavy sleep, rubbing her back in a spring tunnel between adolescence and snuggling and thinking about sitting with my own mom in the late-afternoon sun, talking and admiring the dollhouse-like perfection of an itty-bitty white and purple flower, the comfort of my father reading something about either Hitler or Shakespeare in a nearby Adirondack chair, how we dipped in and out of my sisters’ houses all weekend like birds with many nests.
This is the family I was born into, and the one I bore, the one I found and will forge anew. These are my girls, my women of the sun. And this is Monday morning, just three days until I’ll fly to Phoenix to celebrate our mothers, our ancestors, our sisters and daughters, and the fullness of life right here, right there, unfolding.