Wholly Recentered
Whenever I pick up Tate from Mia’s house, it’s always a welcome surprise to find my daughter in her rawest form.
A month or so ago, I walked into Mia’s warm home, smelling always of fresh toast and Earl Grey tea, Buddhist chants blaring. Nobody of course heard me knocking.
I poked around, sighing as I walked past Tate’s brand new Uggs covered in mud, until I found her happily rocking in a beaten-up, mini wicker rocker they’d pulled out of their attic as soon as my little one could walk, one that all their grandchildren used in days gone by.
She was sharing her yogurt with the basset hound, whose head was on her lap.
Last week, I came in to find Mia and Tate sitting together at the kitchen table. Tate, in her diaper with fresh soap suds on her head like a giant white wig, was balancing on three huge old telephone books.
Holding a board book upside down in her little fists, she was ‘reading aloud’. Mia, with a blinking light-up antennae headband on, five scarves and maybe ten necklaces around her neck and a tutu around her waist, held a bunch of stuffed bears on her lap and was listening earnestly to the story Tate was ‘telling’.
Today, I slide open the front door, with a simple, slow push. Excited to see what they’re up to.
Opera is playing and Mia, in her felt slippers, is comfortably knitting in her favorite chair beside the picture window. She greets me with her low-toned, sure voice, “Wellll, hello Mama. Did you get some good YOU time?”
All fuzzy inside, I explain how well I used my time, though realizing at once what she had implied (maybe I could’ve done less), and quietly ask where Tate is.
Mia, as if just then remembering Tate is with her, nonchalantly shrugs, “Well, it’s been very quiet, haven’t heard a single peep - so I imagine she’s asleep…”
I sneak down to the room where Mia had set up a crib for Tate and peer in. Tate, sitting up and bright-eyed, clearly amused with herself, immediately sees me and delights, “Mama, Mama, look at me!”
She scrambles up to standing, red felt pen held tightly in her left hand.
I exhale to keep calm and gather myself. I keep smiling while attempting to sleuth what’s happened here, looking around for how she may have reached a writing utensil from the crib. There's a desk nearby but it seems much too far away.
Clearly, Tate spent the last hour or more decorating herself. Her cheeks are both covered in red.
There are a bunch of scribbles on her temple and smudges across her forehead. Her palms are beet-colored. Her polkie thighs lined in bright red pen.
She proudly shows me herself with a giant smile, “Look at ME, Mommy!” pleased beyond belief.
I don't know to laugh or cry. My own cheeks redden and I giggle, “Look at you, baby!”
As I scoop her into my arms for that special squeeze that only hours apart brings, my mind races.
Will this come off easily? How could Mia have allowed this, so carelessly sitting upstairs humming to herself? Didn't she check on her at all? Does she ever check in on her?
How hilarious is this? How can I get a photo of this absolutely classic moment? How do I not make a big deal to Tate while also getting to the bottom of how this happened?
How do I allow her to stay with that beautiful proud feeling she always gets with the freedom Mia allows her while also trying to scrub her clean? I don’t want to wash away her pride but this is absurd - what to do?
I decide to keep all the questions inside. Mia has taught me so much.
I climb the stairs with my girl in my arms, and announce, “Hi, Mia. We’re awake!”
Not looking up right away from her wool, “Oh goodie, how’s our girl?”
Tate’s smiling and holding her left arm straight out like a rod to exclaim her new favorite artist’s tool to her soulmate, her Mia.
When Mia looks our way, she bursts out in her deep, deep belly laugh, eyes slivers, mouth open, waking us all up. To what matters.
This does not. This is pure joy. Presence. As it should be.
I thank the angels for Mia having walked over from next door, and leaving me the note she did the week Tate was born: I’ve had nine grandchildren myself, all of whom are mostly grown. If you’d like any help with the new baby, just call me.
When Mia matter-of-factly admits, nodding, “Oh, yes, she really wanted to bring that red pen to nap with her, so I let her,” I’m unphased and shocked at once.
To this day, even as she grows into her tween years, when I pick Tate up from Mia’s house, I take home a girl wholly recentered, back in tune with her most raw self.
Her essence flows out of her again; she’s calmed and somehow freed. By Mia’s acceptance. Of What is.
