Tonight my friend’s youngest girl wanted to
sit on my lap. She was wrapped up in a poncho with only curls and dimples left
popping out. I felt not a little overwhelmed with the privilege.
It was not the
first time. I have watched “Tangled” with her snuggled on my knee and suffered
through “High School Musical” – I didn’t whinge or wriggle because she was
delighting in it and snuggled on my knee. I have seen her dimples flash wide
while she showed me how she can “swim”(jump fearlessly and skill-lessly through
the water). She has performed "Dancing Queen" and some aerobic dancing moves of her own for me. I have multi-coloured her nails. But tonight on my knee she complained because I was rocking. I didn’t
realize I was even moving- it wasn’t my normal, restless, I-can’t-stand-being-still twitching, it was the physical memory of comfort.
My mother always
rocked me. If ever she was patient enough to have me on her knee she rocked–
even as a teen, if I gave her the chance to hold me for a minute, she’d rock.
So it annoyed Dimples but I had the chance to remember the comfort of the rock
– and it was totally about comforting me, not her.
The memory is so
bittersweet, I will not ever share what my mother – and before her my
grandmothers, shared with me. I will not share those moments of nurturing, I
can’t pass on the rocking to my own. Mostly, I go about my days pretty well –
and I have some pretty awesome days that most of my friends are jealous of. But
randomly, with no warning, I know: I will not be a mother. I will not be a
grandmother. I will not rock a child of my own. I will not feel my heartbeat
through her skin as I hold her. I will not see my eyes in hers. And it floors
me.
For a moment, I cannot breathe, I am caught still in my horror. No-one sees
this, it is just a moment but it is such a hopelessness. I am the last of me and the comfort of
rocking.
