There was a moment of tenderness between Story and me last night. It startles me every time Grace shows up and brings to present reality what has mostly remained a distant hope in my heart of the mom I might be. I need to name what happened last night in the hope that it can happen again. Each tiny moment in which a tiny movement of me toward Story occurs is one more invisible stitch toward the binding up of the wounds we carry.
Story was off on her own again, “playing babies” in the playroom. She spends hours each day that she is not at school tending to her many baby dolls. She changes their clothes, feeds them, puts them down for naps, gives them baths, changes their clothes again, and tucks them in for bed. Until last night, I was not aware of how driven Story is to do these many steps of doll care each day. Prompted by something that was not me, I sought Story out, simply to be with her for a few minutes while TJ and the other kids were watching the pre-game coverage of the National Championship.
Looking for a child to spend time with is not something I usually do. What I usually do is what I need to do in keeping house and what I want to do in keeping my own life separate from my children. My primary interactions with the kids, apart from car rides and meal times, come when my hand is forced by an empty roll of toilet paper, an argument that needs settling, or a request for homework help.
Last night, though, I went to where Story was playing by herself and I sat down near her. I started asking her about taking care of her dolls. I soon discerned a striving within her to do many things at many times for many dolls. I asked her if it she thinks it’s fun to do these things. I asked her if a voice in her head tells her to do these things. I asked her which clothes the dolls wear, and how many dolls she takes care of. Story seemed happy to talk to me, telling me how she wants to do a “year of baby dolls” and how many days she has missed so far. This conversation made me aware of how little time I have taken to know these sincere and precious inner workings of Story’s mind and heart. But last night I did what Emily P. Freeman said I could do: “We can work from a small, curious, and willing place.”
I proceeded a little deeper with Story, too, letting the conversation about her love for baby dolls turn to the love that she needs from me. Story’s tears immediately began to flow as she verbalized her need to feel loved and her question of my love for her. This was painful to my heart, as it should be. It was as if I was seeing my daughter for the first time, her being born into my life all over again. It was as if her tears were speaking the words she doesn’t know to say: I need a mom, and I am being born to you.
I heard the words loud and clear. I glimpsed an awareness of what is broken and missing between the two of us. And then I realized that moving into that exact space of deficit, bringing only the me that I have to bring right now, is the only thing to do. The miracle is that it is enough. While I wish I could bring to each encounter with Story a warm demeanor and a loving touch and an affectionate, affirming word (and while those things will continue to be my hope), what I can bring right now is myself, my actual body, into the room with her. I can ask her questions and listen and talk. I can sit near her. I can help her find the doll outfit she needs. I can watch and wait. I can observe Story’s care for her dolls and pray to care like she does. I can say Thank you that it’s not too late. I can, and I will, work from this small, curious, and willing place.