Hanging off the edge of the pond, rain pelting my back, I was trying to scoop up a nice cup of algae water without falling into the algae water. My heels were sinking in the mud, and I was acutely aware of the spectacle I must have been, clad in a white top and silk skirt, braving the elements and a particulary cross pair of nesting geese.
It was a perfectly insane moment of life...however, my son is raising tadpoles, and they needed a fresh food supply. Even if it was raining.
It never ceases to amaze me the things we do for our children. It just amazes me how we do these things so often, and so willingly, without even thinking about the effort we're putting forth.
But what amazes me most is the joy that my child brings into my life. He was an unplanned blessing, a delightful surprise to someone who had spent years focused on work and career. I was driven to accomplish so many goals, but what I never expected was that motherhood would fulfill me in a way that nothing else ever has. Even on the most exhausting days, when I've got glue and glitter on my arms from helping with yet another collage, leaves in my hair from the afternoon's nature walk, and a cicada loose somewhere in the house, (because I relented and allowed him to bring it inside, where it naturally escaped), I know that there is nothing I could ever give my time and attention to that would be more worth it than the child sleeping down the hall.
There are fairy houses in our yard and a butterfly habitat full of cocoons in our den. The jar of tadpoles rests on a counter, and a row of stuffed animals who serve as 'gaurdians' line the back of our couch. Because there is a child in my house, there is magic. I want to put this magic in a jar and keep it on the counter as well.
Somewhere downstairs the lone cicada announces it's presence with a shrill chirp. My son has reveled in these insects, fearless of them from the start. We've researched them together and learned alot about thier lifespan and 13-year cycle. For weeks they've been abundant, but thier time is winding away. A photograph freezes a moment, but I can't freeze childhood. It's winding away too. The next time I see these cicadas, my son will be a grown man, almost twenty.
I leave the lone chirper downstairs.