grown up sippy cups
These are my girls. We’ve graduated from sippy cups and juice pouches to hanging out at Taco Mac, but one thing has been constant: I love them!
I’m at CatholicMom.com today, wondering about my changing role as a mom. With grown daughters, I’m not telling them to do things and making rules for them anymore. But I am wondering how to keep the conversation going.
Some months ago I had the pleasure of going out with my adult daughters, both beautiful women in their early twenties. I never thought I’d have to wrestle over picking up the bar tab with those two, but I have to admit, it’s rather nice to sit back and watch that little social ritual play out as we reached for the bill. In the end, I gave up, letting the oldest assert her well-deserved independence and treat good ol’ mom.
The girls saw my smile, and the love behind my wisecrack, “it’s about time.”
But there was a great deal of satisfaction in watching that playful scene. I was struck with the passing of time, and wondered how it came to this, that I was in a pub having drinks with my now grown daughters when just yesterday, it seems, I was desperately looking for the tops to the sippy cups.
Read about it here.
Still
Still.
Stillness, I suppose, for the sake of clarity.
I was going to go with silence, but then I thought, no, what I really want is more than silence. To be still is to be silent, isn’t it? And a little more.
It has an edge of expectation. A quality of something that is going to happen any second and I must listen intently for it.
It reminds me of being a kid and hiding from my parents. I’d squeeze into the corner behind a bookcase and read. I wasn’t hiding from anything in particular, and I wasn’t up to no good. In fact, I was just looking for a quiet and cozy place to read. I still like the idea of a little retreat no one knows about.
My favorite time was in the late afternoon on Saturdays. I probably had to pick up my room and do a chore or two, and then I’d retire to my corner. The late afternoon sun was just enough, and everyone was winding down, so there was no noise in the house.
Stillness. Quiet. But there was something coming. My mom was moving toward the kitchen to start dinner. There was an air of transition. The day was ending, and night was coming, but not yet.
And I had to strain to hear anything outside my little space.
Things haven’t changed much decades later. I found a different little retreat: the chapel at my parish. It’s small, and I can sit in any pew and still watch the light and shadows dance across the floor like I did so many years ago behind my book case. It’s quiet there, unless the maintenance guys are doing their thing. If I’m lucky, I can sit in silence without the overhead lights on…and if I stay undisturbed just long enough, I find myself straining expectantly, listening for the elusive something that’s meant for me.