ordinary love

July’s arrival has not been subtle. This afternoon, even in the shade, flowers wilted on their stems. The air was heavy in my lungs, and birds sat quiet and still in the trees. On days like this, as on bitter cold nights in the winter, I can’t help but worry about the well-being of every living thing.

After bedtime, I took a walk in the neighborhood. It was 89° at 9pm, and humid enough that my skin was damp in minutes. The sky glowed nightlight blue–as dark as it gets in the suburbs. Stars were as scarce as ever, but fireflies at eye level made up for what was lacking overhead.

The nighttime heat transported me to this time last summer, when newborn Muriel spent her first six weeks between the NICU and the Acute Cardiac Floor. I’d spend every day with her in the hospital, then drive home around 2pm to relieve our nanny and be with sweet 2-year-old Margot until bedtime. After Margot went down and Matt got home, I’d drive back to the hospital at 10 or 11pm, or sometimes I’d sleep at home first then head to the city at 2 or 3am.

I always took the back roads with the windows down. I listened to the same playlist every night: first Jeff Buckley, then the Magnetic Fields, then Nico then Big Thief, etc. I saw coyotes and raccoons and people disposing of large amounts of trash in places that I presumed to be not-their-dumpsters. I wore the same sundress for more than a month; once one of the doctors told me “you always look so nice” and I couldn’t help but giggle. I can still feel my body in that cotton maternity dress, slipping out the front door into the warm night, tip-toeing past the dogwood and the birches, wishing the car would start without making quite so much noise, remembering my lanyard and hospital badge and fun postpartum accessories.

Muriel was precious. Her health was unstable. We learned when she was about a week old that she was born with heart defects, and her heart rate dropped dangerously a couple times a day. Of course I cherished every moment with our newborn child, but the tenderness of those weeks was accompanied by considerable fear and worry. All I could do was hold her in my arms, change her tiny diaper, feed her, sing to her, talk to her, learn what I could about congenital heart disease, and stay strong. I wondered how I could possibly feel such tremendous love for such a little person.

One year later, Muriel is a seriously chunky, exuberant, speed-crawling, standing, climbing, almost-freaking-walking, vibrantly giggling, and developmentally normal baby. I think a lot about how much easier those first few months would have been if we’d known that she was going to thrive. It’s a good reminder to stay positive in the face of hardship: worry, as they say, is just wasted imagination. As Muriel’s cardiologist put it in January, “Muriel hasn’t gotten the memo that she has a heart condition.”

Last weekend we took a family trip to the Blue Hills Trailside Museum, where we had the spectacular privilege of watching a river otter spin and play, an Eastern Screech Owl stare at us with wide golden eyes, and a mottled snowy owl brood over her eggs!

Holding Muriel in my arms, a few days after her first birthday, I watched the mother owl. The graceful white bird sat silently, tucked between two rocks in some straw on the ground. How humbling to be stuck with your babies! How powerful to be nurturing and caring for the next generation. Her purpose was clear. How beautiful she was, and poised and strong and fluffy.

I was raised by a mother who tends to believe that the love she feels for her children is extraordinary. I was led to believe, as a child and into my adult years, that my mom loves me more than other moms love their kids.

As a mother, I feel just the opposite. The love I feel for my children makes my heart explode, and I think my kids are the most wonderful humans on the planet. But I think that these feelings are anything but extraordinary. They are, as far as I can tell, profoundly ordinary. And this is part of what makes being a mother so beautiful! Not only do I feel more love for my children than I ever knew I was capable of, but I also feel deeply connected to parents and caregivers everywhere. And isn’t it wonderful that there are so many hearts-exploding-with-love all over the world?

These were my thoughts while watching the mother owl. I felt a strong kinship with this bird–keeping her babies warm, protecting them, ready to do whatever it takes to care for them. Naturally, I wept profusely. I was that lady holding her chubby baby and crying at the owl sitting on the ground. Which, if you ask me, should maybe become a more ordinary sight.