Sacredness of the Ordinary

It is smooth to the touch save for a dimple in the middle, silver, and the size of a nickel. In the rare moments she wants to cuddle, my daughter will perch on my lap, pull the necklace close to her, and align her thumb in the pendant’s middle—a cast of her one-year-old thumb.

That cast marks my transition to motherhood and my re-education of things I thought I knew.

The sleep deprivation of those first few weeks, standing in her bedroom, shirt wet from my tears and hers because I could not get the mandrake shrieks of my colicky child to stop, trumps any late night college study session. I also realized that fears I previously thought legitimate pale in comparison to the fear that gripped me as I witnessed a heart wrenching febrile seizure and the nerve-wracking ride to the hospital that followed. 

That first year was not all scary and frustrating lessons, however. There were many moments of joy: seeing not only myself, but my mother and grandmother reflected back in her bright eyes, which shortly after her first birthday changed from blue to hazel; watching her confidence grow as she toddled from the couch to my open arms; and, laughing as her diapered bottom swayed to the “Single Ladies” video.

I also learned to appreciate the fun in every day.  I remember someone asking me how parenthood was and replying that there was not a day since Evelyn was born where I had not laughed. Five years later, that laughter and appreciation for the lighter side of life continues, especially now that she has a newfound love for joke telling--and her knock-knock jokes don’t make any sense.

It is hard to fathom that the little girl whose thumb made this print is now a kindergartner, a little girl who loves to read—to her mother’s joy--a little girl who relishes in making new friends, and a little girl who is not afraid to make her voice heard—usually, but not always, to her mother’s joy.

In the end, the greatest lesson I learned in that first year, and continue to learn in the four years since, is how quickly time moves. This year, she went off to kindergarten, confidently strutting through the doors; tomorrow it will be middle school, and then high school and then college. Like so many mothers, I wish I could freeze time and keep her this age longer, to relish each minute.

Yet, with each passing year, I will have the memory of the first year that changed the way I defined myself—no longer just daughter, sister, wife and friend, but mother, first and foremost—cast in silver, smooth to the touch save for a dimple in the middle.