Other Mothers’ Children
I make the teens adjacent to me nervous. They wonder if I’m eavesdropping, spying for their mothers as we are a right-knit crew. Not in the sense that we spend time together beyond passing at drop-off and pick-up, but in the way that we are a tribe, a village, all of us watching out for the others’ children.
Me showing my age.
I am not eavesdropping, but if I were to hear them share danger or another cause for concern, I would speak up to the proper mama. The world can be dangerous. We all want the same thing: for our children to survive and be happy.
These girls with ripped jeans and multi-color hair, cell phones and acne—they are beautiful. They are confident despite their nervous glances my way. Four around a table, tiny coven convening. Little witches are everywhere in this town. They practice the magic of laughter and love.
I am not listening, but I feel the magic they give off. Youth is a pretty thing. I remember mine, always backwards in a chair, arms folded across the top, bubble gum in my mouth, smiling. Once I was earnest to fit in. With time I realized out was a better place for me.
Which of these young women is that version of me? Or are they all so full of confidence they fall together with the chips? They are glancing my way. I wonder what I look like to a teen. I have just begun to show my age. I am young yet, but my experience has frayed my edges, webbed the corners of my eyes. And there are the streaks of gray through my hair plus the children nearly their age following me like ducklings.
These girl take up so much space it is hard to give them any. All I want is for my daughter to finish her snack so I can shift away. Show respect. I remember what it was like to feel watched but not seen.
This is a lovely reflection! You're beautiful, friend, and I adore your wise and gentle soul. And this:
Yes, this is a great description of that feeling. I love it. Thanks for sharing.
Great piece, and you remind me of my mom when my sisters were that age. I was the youngest.
When my sisters were in high school, my mom was one of the "cool" moms, ferrying my sisters and their friends to their respective activities, while studiously not listening to their conversations.
And she gained the trust of several, to the extent that during one football game, which we attended to watch my oldest sister perform with her drill team, a school acquaintance who was having a bad trip recognized my mom in the stands, so she was asked to take the young girl home, which of course she immediately agreed to do.
And I remember well being watched and not heard, though thankfully not by my mom. Great description.
Thanks for the reaffirmation when you say "out was a better place for me." I so get that. I'd rather stay out beside the cold crackling of the ice on the treelimbs, shivering, frozen in why. Better out, than risk the wrath of his hatred of self turned in an instant to rage uncontrollable. Nothing but the quacking of the ducks squawking over a piece of sandwich tossed their way, and the cold wind in my face out, the bitter cold, cold wind blowing out the fire burning within. Much better to be out. It's safe out.
Your posts are always so great to read, I love your style of writing and the warmness you always manage to give off. I have 3 girls they are all under 9 but I know that time you describe will soon come. Thank you for sharing your true wisdom, I love this