The Book of Ruth Chapter 19: The end of a chapter

Leaving, unlike waiting, isn’t the hardest part. I’m siding with Tom Petty on this one.

I like leaving. I like finality. I like knowing a chapter is over. Maybe it’s my tendency to flee. I like running. But not, like, literally. Ew.

I am not great in systems. I get nervous and tend to bolt. Like a squirrel whose spine twitches the second you notice it on the lawn. Skittish. I too gather for the winter. For a cold day when it's more famine than feast. Always prepared. Aware I’ve formed this habit over the years yet unable to break that cycle.

So here I am trying to break a cycle. A writing habit. I like putting fingers to keyboard once I’ve discovered something concrete or I’m solving a specific problem. It’s part of my process. Learn. Process. Recite. Write. But today I write from the middle. No acute issue. No presenting problem. No lesson learned. Just the itchy discomfort of the inbetween that is living. Daily.

I am officially in the kid years with Ruth. No longer surprised by night wakings and tantrums. The shock of it all has worn off. Now we are in the day to day. The days of negotiations. Of threats when we’re too tired to be perfect bastions of calm cool, and collected. The days of apologies, I love yous, and I’ll do better next times.

She starts kindergarten in September. I feel less emotional about this transition than the previous ones. Maybe I’ll cry on the first day. Maybe I won’t. She seems so much less vulnerable now. I worry less because she can talk to me. Thank goodness for speech even if we talk in code sometimes.

I quit my job a month ago. I wanted to be here for this inbetween time. Before she goes off to school. Before she is an official kindergartener. Before her world gets bigger and my role in it smaller and smaller as the years go on.

It still feels like she was born yesterday. How is she so big? She pretends to be baby Evie from Peppa Pig. I try to cradle her and rock her in my arms but she’s too big. How did she get so big?

How did we get here?

Motherhood has taught me my biggest fear is silence. Or screaming with no further communication. A fussy baby is not a great problem solver. As is their right, but I found it difficult. During those early days, the relationship part of motherhood is in its infancy as much as the infant. But as the years grow so does the conversation. Now, she tells me what hurts. What’s bothering her (more or less). What made her feel sad. What she’s excited about. This is a balm. Wondering left me worried. Now we tackle things together.

She is full of magic and wonder. And I don’t want it to end. When she tells a joke or asks me for space I glimpse shades of the adult she will one day become. I want to foster today's joy. The desire for play. Even to my own embarrassment as we walk around the farmer’s market with Brisket’s leash around her neck. She is having the time of her life. I get strange looks. Amused looks. And some people don’t even notice. I am beyond shame at this point. Motherhood stripping me of my mask. I couldn’t say no as she begged me before we left the house. "Please please PLEASE MOMMY! Puppies are allowed there. Please take me for a walk! It will be OK!" I wince and agree. It goes okay and I feel a bit guilty that I’m relieved she’s on a lead because she’s a bolter. I wonder where she got that.

These moments are fleeting. Trying to grab ahold of this age is like trying to thread a needle. I close one eye and squint as I try to fit everything into this eye-sized sliver of time. Soon she won’t want to be a puppy. I want her to feel like she has some agency. Since she is stubborn, no idea where she got that, so much of our days are spent hurrying her from here to there. From this thing to that thing. She mirrors our urgency. "We only have five minutes, Sister" she hollers at her dolly, "We need to go NOW. We won't have time to play at the park if we don't go right now!". So, I let her be a puppy. Just this once. In public. Because it’s what she really really reallllllllllllllllly wants.

She tells me about kindergarten and what the other kids are saying about it at preschool. Her little community of kids. She is not just ours. She belongs to them and herself too. The distance between us growing ever so slightly. She’s ready. I think I am too.

At the playground I meet littler kids. Their parents look tired. They are still be trained for exhaustion. One of them asks me if it gets easier. I say, "which part?". They laugh. I like having gone through the gauntlet of the first few years. Things don’t feel easier but they feel very different, I tell the dad. And different is as good as easier. It’s better I think because it implies progress. I talk to the 16 month old at the park now that I can talk baby. I’m fluent. She laughs and claps her hands. I clap along with her and play a little peek a boo. I have let time get away from me again. We rush Ruth home and into the bath. Our bedtime routine is like clockwork.

I buy her too many things for her birthday. She’s so excited. I want to spoil her a little. I donate her baby toys to charity. The excitement of procuring things for myself is gone. We are so fortunate to have what we need. We are so fortunate to have each other. Like each other. Have a little stillness in our lives.

I feel the apathy of youth sluffing off me the longer I wade into motherhood’s waters. I used to feel I was it. A youth. The cultural thermometer. But that chapter has closed. I'm just an adult. I don’t know the trends. Dressing in old lady clothes is no longer ironic it’s just age appropriate. My tendency towards nostalgia isn’t indicative of my old soul. It’s evidence I’ve lived long enough to look back on things from twenty years ago.

Ruth speaks about last year with a wistfulness I recognize. She feels time differently but just as tenderly. She tries to orient herself through her budding lived experiences. I try to hold on as this merry-go-round spins faster and faster.

She cuddles in close in the morning before barking her orders at me. My sentimentality shifts the older she gets. There are less profound moments crashing over me like waves. Now, we are just living life. I am a mom with four years of experience. The role isn’t new. I’ve learning the players. The office. The expectations. Every twelve months it feels like we’re onboarding a new employee. One with a brain that’s a little bit older. A little more developed. We get to know each other one day at a time. It is a glorious and confounding vocation.

Who knows how kindergarten will go. What big feelings will come up. But I finally feel like we’re sturdy enough to face the unknown with a grin. As a family bonded by stubbornness, pluck, and imagination.