The Flight of the Waxwings

Olive lies with her head on my lap, pale and warm, she coughs every few seconds.

"Mom, my side hurts."

"Its from all your coughing, Sweetie."

Her eyes open and close as she resists sleep. Out the window, I watch a flock of Bohemian Waxwings take flight from our Mountain Ash tree. The small birds move through the air like one giant organism, a mass of black dots in the sky that change shape as they move out of sight.

I look down at my daughter, finally at rest, and realize I often forget she is not connected to me.

We are not one. 

It feels like it at times, like when I can't finish a conversation without, "Mom... Mommy!" When she climbs onto my side of the bed at night and takes up more space than Nick and I combined. When for five years now, beginning with her first colicky screams to her tantrums to her more recent mantra "I got an idea," her vocal desires constantly interrupt mine. It feels like we are but one organism breathing the same recycled air. And as much as I love her, I feel claustrophobic at times. Like all I want to do is stretch my limbs, my imagination, without bumping against the will of a child.

And yet I know this ultra-connected time won't last. It won't be long before she closes her door against me and I am the one calling her name, hoping she responds. Olive...Sweetie, talk to me...

Someday, sooner than I know, she will be the one longing for more space, eager to take flight.

I stroke Olive's hair,  similar in texture to mine but cut short above her ears, her choice. I watch her eyelashes flutter and wonder what images they conceal. I will never know my daughter's dreams.

I am reminded of Kahlil Gibran's words from The Prophet:

      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. 
      

I look out the window again and wonder where the Waxwings will land next and how many individual birds, each one unique to its Bohemian self, create the fluid flock that makes patterns in the sky.

 

Comments

[Tabatha]

Beautiful metaphor with the waxwings -- you could make a poem with that! "I got an idea" is the best mantra :-)

[Kristen H]

Eloquently written, Christy! I have a 3-yr-old who is extremely (overly?) connected to me and my husband and a 14-yr-old who is becoming her own woman. It does go fast, but it can feel stifling at times. I am grateful for the reminder my daughter unwittingly provides to cherish this time with my son. It doesn't sound like you need to be reminded!

[Christy]

Oh Kristen I still have to remind myself, in part why I chose to write this, for I know as much as i want time away from her, this interconnected period wont last. Elias, on the other hand, well, who knows...

Tabatha, thank you and yes, many of Olive's ideas are quite wonderful indeed:)