Heart Snapshot

At 10:30 last night, Ellen yelled for me from her bedroom.  When I opened her door to ask her what she needed, her little voice came through the dark – “I’m hungry.”  Usually I hear this when she spots a dessert somewhere in a quarter-mile radius, immediately after finishing a big lunch of macaroni and cheese. 

I walked in her room, knelt by her bed, and said, “well, it’s not time for eating now.  Put your head back on your pillow and fall asleep.” 

She gave it her best effort for about 3.5 seconds, and then said again, “I’m really HUNGRY.”

Maybe it was because yesterday was a bit stressful for me (for various reasons related to the cancelling of an appointment to get another tattoo), or maybe I just really wanted to get back to my movie – in any case, I responded “would you like a piece of bread?” 

“Yes PLEASE,” she answered.  So to the kitchen I went, and returned with a plain piece of 100% whole wheat bread – in other words, a snack so tasteless that in order to eat it, one must be truly hungry and not just jonesing for a dessert.  I sat down next to her, handed her the bread, and she began munching.  I could barely make out her Elmo pajamas and her bright eyes due to the light from the paused movie in the living room, and the relative darkness exaggerated her three-year-old chewing sounds.  She took a second bite without a word, then a third, and put her head back on the pillow. 

I rested my head on her soft little lap, and as she silently continued eating, I envisioned the two of us fifteen years from now.  Ellen is 18, and I’m…fifteen years older than I am now. 

The whole family is riding along in the car on the way to take Ellen to college (St. Olaf, naturally) and we’re reminiscing together.  “I can’t believe this day is here,” I say.  “These 18 years went so fast.”  I ignore the eye rolls from both of my daughters and say, “hey, what’s the earliest thing that you remember?  Do you remember the house in St. Louis Park?”  “I don’t,” says Cecilia.  Ellen responds, “Vaguely.  I remember the bathroom with the pink countertop, and Dad’s train set in the basement.  Actually I have this memory of eating a piece of bread in my bed in the dark, with your head resting in my lap, Mom.  Did that happen, or did I make that one up?”  I look back at her and smile.  “You remember that?  You were only three years old!”  “Yeah,” Ellen says as she looks out the window at the passing fields.  “That’s one of the earliest things I remember.” 

This scene was so vivid in my mind that I really felt myself as a mother with her firstborn going to college, and it made me nostalgic, and mournful for the three-year-old Ellen who will never exist again.  The tears started coming pretty steadily, and I had to remind myself that this precious moment was still happening.  I was still in it.  My three-year-old wasn’t gone yet, and I could look at her sweet face through my tears.  She took another bite of her bread, and then I felt her soft little hand cradle my cheek.  It stayed for a moment, then moved to my chin, then my forehead.  “Oh Mommy,” she said to me.  “I LOVE you.”  I put my hand over her little one, and said, “I love you too” while trying not to completely break down.  Her bread was gone, so I said, “do you want a sip of your water to wash it down?”  She nodded, took the cup from my hands, took a big gulp, then nestled back down into her pillow.  As I tucked her in I said “Ellen, you are my beautiful and special girl.”  She looked at me and replied, “I know.”