My daughter comes to me with sparkling eyes and cupped hands, joy dancing across her face, “Mom! Look at the shells I collected! Look!”
She stands before me with outstretched arms and opens her hands slightly to make a larger container. So that I might see.
I lean forward to poke a finger into the shards of broken shell and mud and bits of ragged seaweed. Admire her treasures. Select my favorites. Contemplate with her what creatures might have called these shells home.
All as she stands before me with outstretched arms and cupped hands.
This happens all the time. Cupped hands of dubious treasure brought to me for examination and appreciation. It has turned out to be one of the more lovely unexpected aspects of motherhood . . . that shared delight at new small discoveries.
That need for my daughters to see them in that moment.
See the treasures, yes.
But really? See them.
They invite me in . . . into their cupped hands and into their lives . . . Here is something I think is important and I want to share that with you.
You know that feeling you get in your throat right before you are going to cry?
Yeah, that one.
Hate that.
Ahem.
So anyway.
When I was little, I would often bring small treasures in cupped hands.
And sometimes?
It was all good.
And sometimes?
My father would beckon me closer, so that he might more fully enjoy the delights that I had gathered for him. And I would move eagerly forward. To share.
And my father’s hand would dart out quick and hard to smack at my hands from underneath. So that the thing I had wanted to share? Went flying up into the air, made worthless by his laughter and contempt.
The memory of that repeated humiliation?
Has lingered.
And then an angry raging lecture, about never fucking trusting anybody.
Anybody.
I would learn that lesson many times.
Sigh.
Jesus, that throat thing is really annoying.
Ahem.
OK, so what I wanted to say today is this . . .
When I started writing this blog? I didn’t think anyone would really read it. I figured a few of my friends would stop by and pat me on the internet shoulder, but mostly?
I wrote for me and some future version of my daughters.
And the fact that I was doing it out in public . . . I sort of hoped that would motivate me to keep doing the thing. I have a history of running out of steam and then lying down for a while. And once I lie down? It is difficult for me to get back up.
That’s just part of the reality of being me.
So I have posted every fucking day.
That has been harder than I expected it to be.
And also? It has been lovelier than I expected it to be.
Because every single day, I come to you with outstretched arms and cupped hands.
And every single day? You bend forward and poke among my shards of shells and mud and bits of ragged seaweed. Admire my offerings. Select your favorite parts. Share a bit of yourself that my cupped hands call forth for you.
I love when you share.
And I see you contemplating the woman who holds out her hands every day.
Contemplating the woman who invites you in . . . into my cupped hands and into my life . . . Here is something I think is important and I want to share that with you.
I see you.
As you have come . . . every day . . . to see me.
And with every day that you come to see me?
My trust in this relationship we are building grows.
And because I do not write things out ahead of time?
You get what you get here on Pretty All True.
And today?
My cupped hands?
Are filled with gratitude.
And guess what else?
I will be taking no comments today.
I know! I am like a crazy woman.
Much love, people.
Much love.
