Wrangler Dani

A by no-means-exhaustive list of things my darling girl likes, right now: McDonald’s, swimming, putting things on her Christmas list, flippy sequin shirts, excessive body spray, being tickled, unicorns of all kinds, Special Mama Time, baking, helping in the kitchen, smelly markers, helping with irrigation, feeding chickens, shopping, glitter, My Little Pony, holding her kitty, learning about both the human body and volcanoes – which means I might have a math/science kid, Lord help this artsy/English mama.

Similarly non-exhaustive – things she dislikes: direct questions, seaweed, changes in plan, loud noises, salad, crowded places, plain Cheerios, guacamole, taking pictures, the dark, removing band-aids, bugs, wearing socks, when her little brother steals her body spray/pony/unicorn.

She is magic. She is God’s great gift to me. She is the source of my most intense frustrations. No matter how well I know her there are always complexities I don’t understand, she is infinitely vibrant, ever morphing into new forms. Because I am her mother, I can lean into her and kiss her hot little forehead when she is frustrated or frightened, I can explain her shyness or seeming indifference to those around us, I can serve as her bodyguard and translator. I often apologize for not getting it right, for losing my cool – but I am her keeper in the most basic sense. I am her protector and although I tremble at the weight of such a responsibility, I grasp it tightly with both hands. I will fail her often but I will never let her go.

Here’s what motherhood has taught me, in the unexplained sudden tears and the little face hiding behind my skirt and the “Mama, but Mama” whines that make me feel genuinely insane and also adored beyond all sensible explanation: fierce love is not an investment. It’s not a thing that can be decided on and tucked away, like the automated deductions we make from our bank accounts. It’s a daily, inconvenient act. It has to be ready to go whether I’m on vacation or in the grocery store or taking a nap or making dinner or mid-sentence or catching a horse or ankle-deep in hot-dog vomit (don’t ask).

So then when I glance up from the trenches of motherhood, I notice how our culture minimizes the wonder of our humanness and the required sweat of real love. We talk about celebrities and news-makers – real, actual people – as soulless avatars. We say “I don’t like so-and-so” when what we mean is that we don’t find their art/opinions/style to jive with our own. Surely we can’t care for everyone like we care for our children, but isn’t it possible to at least remind ourselves of their complexity? If my 5-year-old daughter hides deep wells of curiosity, intelligence, anxiety, hope, fear, understanding and need, don’t we all?

I am troubled by my own parenting failings, I think about the ways I do not love my kids well enough, the way I lose my temper or roll my eyes or said “gimme some space!” (Just a side-note, when your 5-year-old starts telling your 2-year-old, “Let’s give Mama some space,” it might be time to stop saying it and actually do it. Get you some space, that is.)

I feel like I write about love and its iterations all the time, like perhaps I have said enough on this topic and need to find something else to obsess about. But perhaps I find it to be an infinite subject because it seems obvious but is so incredibly hard to implement. It seems obvious that mothers love their children and yet I am asked if I love my kids as much as I would love “my own”. (I do my best to reply with a smile, “Yes. They are my own.”) It seems obvious that we should love our neighbor and yet we are stumped on the details, even a couple thousand years after Jesus broke it down for us. It seems obvious that if I am deep water, unknowable even to myself, if my 5-year-old is equally wild and mysterious, than so is the person I disagree with, the person who was rude to me in line, the person who has hurt my feelings or written me off or made me feel unwelcome or unseen.

I dream of having a friendship with Addy someday, of shopping with her, taking her out to brunch, of smiling to hear her signature raucous chuckle well into her adulthood. But even if we stay as close as I hope we will, I will never know everything about her, just as I will never plumb my own depths completely. With every sentence I write I am finding myself, brushing detritus away from the crumbling edifices of my inner sanctum, saying “oh, maybe that’s it”. May I have the same curiosity for others. Love is fueled by willingness to understand and if that fails, embrace – just as I do for my overtired 5-year-old. That is love, even when it is broken and coarse, a paltry offering: this is the daily, toiling work of love.