"What do you need a paper for?" She questioned. Probably thinking something crafty lay ahead. My answer, I want to hold it.
A cup of coffee.
A book- but the right book. Thick vanilla pages in a soft waxy binding that bends in your hands without breaking the spine.
The edge of a blanket.
The hem of a hoodie.
The foot of a sleeping cat. Although that one doesn't ever last very long. The cats aren't too tolerant of my thumb pushing between their toes for more than a minute.
A good deck of old playing cards.
Wooden scrabble tiles.
Lake water on the side of the boat.
Being a holder or a keeper for your kids is not a chore or a sacrifice, some of the work is, but the calling itself is not. It grants you the power to stand in more than one world at a time. You live your life and you live in theirs too. And if you do it right, into the lives of their children, and their children's children.
Mothering is not a war between your needs and theirs. You aren't giving yourself up or away. You are adding lives together, like marriage.
On Monday morning the newspaper sat on the sofa. Beach picked it up asking, "How was your paper, mom?" Her smile breaking into the corners of her eyes.
"Really good. Perhaps today I will even read it."