A Blink of the Past

I stare into the dog’s single remaining eye and long for the past.

Thea used to have the most beautiful ice-blue eyes — eyes that conveyed more expression than I’d ever thought possible in a dog: joy, spunk, peace, audacity… eyes that could tell me almost exactly what she was thinking at a given moment. A tumor stole half of that away last summer. And yet, Thea is still more herself than I have been in the last four years. Full of life and expression. Full of trust.

I, however, am lost.

The leaves on the maple are turning red today – finally – after an uncomfortably hot summer. And it reminds me of days from ten years ago, walking to classes on the college campus while crumpled leaves blew across the sidewalk. I strutted confidently on my way, listening to music way too loud, swishing my hair as I walked, and generally thinking that I was important and going to make something of myself one day. Going to have a life full of meaning.

Now, I change diapers and hopelessly mop the floor each week.

I asked for this. There wasn’t much I’d wanted more than motherhood, even in my college days. A warm house, a warm husband, and a warm embrace from many tiny hands every single day. I now have exactly what I’d dreamed of since I was a little girl. So why does it feel like it is slowly draining my life from me?

Many voices gave advice, warned me that I was going to miss these days – while they were simultaneously the hardest days of my life. I remember my firstborn weighing down my arms as I struggled to rock him calm, back when he never seemed to sleep, and trying, trying, so hard to appreciate the moment while holding back heavy yawns and sharp tears. How can you appreciate a moment when it takes everything you have to survive it?

Maybe I don’t miss the past, but just how I felt back then. Joyful, spunky, peaceful, audacious… Instead of tired. Always tired.

But I miss my firstborn’s newborn days too, especially in sweet moments like when he sits next to me and pats his hand comfortingly on my back just like I do to him. He’s only three, but he hasn’t slept in my arms for some time now.

A cool wind brushes through, lifting the loose curls around my face and the fur from Thea’s back. I reach out to her, stroking my fingers over her soft ears then down under her chin while she continues to look back at me.

Seven years ago, a much smaller, fluffier Thea and I sat together on a day like this. I scratched my hand down her back, watching the low afternoon sun sear the fall colors into a deeper orange. My life was just beginning – I had an exciting new job, I was engaged to be married, and I’d adopted this adorable new puppy to be my companion. She was fiery and fun and full of life, things that I wanted to be. I hoped she would teach me to be the same, as we faced this life together — Thea and I, against the world.

Did we do it? Am I fiery and hopeful? I ask, still staring into that remaining icy eye like Thea could both read my mind and answer me back. Did we find the meaning?

The wind picks up its tempo, pushing rainbow leaves through the yard where my husband and boys run and play. Laughter fills the air. She blinks and looks away.