I see

Look, Mom. Do you see?
A thousand times a day, tugging at my sleeve, calling out in the rearview mirror, yelling from upstairs, downstairs, around the corner, from the other room – Look! Watch me! Come quick! You have to see this! You have to see!
Times three.

I see you. I see you. I see you.
Look at you, interrupting me. Look at you, wanting food, attention, answers, love. Can’t you see I was working? Can’t you see I was doing Important Things? Why are you asking me to stop? Why are you asking me to go? Don’t you know I had plans, ambition, direction, control? Don’t you know I wanted the day to go my way? Look at you, asking me to slow down, take notice, back up, turn around. Look at you, seeking my surrender in a thousand quiet, clamoring ways.
Thanks for helping me see.

Witness is part of parenthood. We watch a child becoming before our eyes. Awakening to the world at first. Alert for longer stretches each week, searching around the room with brand-new, blinking eyes.
We watch for the baby to smile, to laugh, to coo. Then to roll, to crawl, to creep, to cruise, to totter, to walk. We clap and coax, we capture on camera. At some point we go from passive witness to attentive audience. With toddlers we are beckoned, called, commanded to pay attention. Playdoh, coloring page, cardboard box-turned-rocket-ship, basement fort, stuffed animal zoo, leaf collection, sand castle, soapy sink, spontaneous dance party. Bigger boys do tricks from the diving board, build Lego cities, draw comics, create habitats for inchworms in plastic cottage cheese containers, decorate gingerbread houses in the middle of August. And my job is to admire all of it.

Come, the boys will call me a million times - if I'm lucky - before they leave this house for good.