to have and to hold

On Sunday, standing in the grocery store checkout line I bought a copy of the SLC Tribune.  Beach returning from her ritual sweep along the row of gumball machines tipped her head with curiosity.

"What do you need a paper for?" She questioned.  Probably thinking something crafty lay ahead.  My answer, I want to hold it.

The newspaper.

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.

Cinnamon Bears.

Lake water on the side of the boat.

I am a "holder" a "keeper".  Like most moms, I am a vessel of memory. I hold hands, crayon drawings, tiny candy wrappers, places in line, sticky melting cups of forgotten ice cream, the seat of a wobbly bike, ticket stubs, the edge of clean sheets over the far corner of the bed, soggy stuffed animals, used tissues, plates of cookies, bowls of soup, bleeding noses, the leash of a dog, and a thousand doors- open and closed.

When people marry they take vows before witnesses.  Vows like to honor and cherish, to have and to hold...When a woman becomes a mother she makes no such promises.  Most don't have to. 

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.   

Motherhood is a tree with roots and branches, leaves and fruit.  Bows break, leaves fall, fruit ripens.  The branches grow to the warmth of the light and the roots grow to the coolness of the water.  My kids are my roots as often as I am theirs.  We grow together.  We branch out.  We sway in the wind. 

A million things can happen to a tree over its lifetime.  It can be cut down or it can nurture life and grow a forest.

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."

I hold blue covers, pencils, library books, science projects, the third strand of hair in a braid.  I hold car keys, the tops of cranky bathroom stall doors, flashlights, bottle caps, desert stones, and bleached out cow bones.  But the best thing I hold is the love I have for all of them.