In Between

I’m no longer the brunette of my youth, but far from the beautiful silver of my mother and grandmother. The skin is no longer taut, rather stretched and scarred. The weight doesn’t drop off easily anymore, but it’s supposed to in 6 weeks. I see lines where there were none before, brown telling of time in the sun, but age spots replace sun-kissed. In between awake and asleep, never getting enough rest, but not really resting when I do finally fall into bed.
There is the passion of youth and a lack of the certainty and confidence that comes with age. There are big dreams and big responsibilities. In between “When is he going?” and “Is he home yet?”
There are goals and a word and the tyranny of the shoulds and the tyranny of the urgent.
Feeling young still, like I just graduated and got married, but realizing that I’m not that young anymore. And I’m not old enough to have arrived, to have wisdom assumed of me. Wanting and needing to learn so much, yet expected to teach what little I do know. When did I become the older woman? But aren’t I still the younger one?
Letting them crawl into my lap when I really want to crawl in my Daddy’s lap. Becoming the fixer while I need fixing. Trying hard not to look back, but lacking the drive to press forward. Living what I have always dreamed but wondering what to do when that’s done – when boys are men and have wives and kids and dreams and bills. What will I do then? Will that be a new in between?
The days are long and the years are short. But then one day, the years will be long and the days will be short.
Get to where you’re going, but don’t forget where you’ve been.
Mommy, why? Mommy, can I? Wahhh!!!!! Honey, what’s for dinner?
The cleaning and re-cleaning. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Mommy, look! I caught a fly! Mommy, I have an idea!
Mommy, watch this! Mommy, can I pour my own drink?
An almost crawl. A cry that says he’s hungry. A first reach for me with sweet chubby arms.
And smiles that melt and sticky kisses and dirty faces and stinky feet.
And questions deeper than they know – When will Duchess die? When will Daddy come home? Why?
And sweet prayers and sweet forgiveness and sweet helpers.
The in between? I guess it’s called life, the stuff of memories.
And you’re always in between.