This past weekend, my partner and our son hit the slopes for skiing, while my 8-year-old daughter, Lily, and I opted for a quiet weekend at home. Lily is still recovering from her recent mononucleosis diagnosis, and although she appears to be doing well, she still tires easily. On Saturday morning, we decided to take a stroll over to Fresh Pond, where I jogged while she rode her bike along the familiar path. Typically, she zooms ahead of me, looping back to ensure I’m not too far behind. However, after just one lap around the reservoir, she hesitantly asked if we could stop. Panting and admitting her legs were fatigued, I wrapped her in a hug and agreed it was best to head back. As I secured her bike in the car, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was wise to push our outing given her lingering illness.
Once home, we snuggled up in my bed to finish reading “Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.” Our tradition is to watch the movie as a celebration after completing each book. Lily sat beside me, her eyes sparkling with excitement and curiosity as I read the final chapters. The dim light from the lamps created a cozy atmosphere, with the gentle hum of a fan adding to the serenity. I cherish these moments, especially knowing that Lily shares my love for quiet afternoons spent reading together.
After we closed the book, I rummaged through the closet to find the movie, tucked away among some sweaters. As I pulled it out, Lily’s face lit up with excitement. “Can I watch that now, Mommy?” she asked, before quickly correcting herself with a sheepish grin, “Oh, I mean, may I?” I had clearly corrected her on that one too many times.
“Of course, Lily,” I replied, feeling a burst of pride. I set the DVD into an old laptop, and she settled back against the pillows, her weariness evident in her slumped shoulders and heavy sigh. I recalled those first few days after her mono diagnosis, when she would fall asleep anywhere, as if she were a baby once more.
Once the movie wrapped up, we decided to treat ourselves to dinner at our favorite local spot, Marco’s. Since it was just two blocks away, we strolled, Lily clutching her American Girl doll, Sophie, dressed in her finest outfit, while her other hand slipped into mine. I tried to ignore the bittersweet thought that these moments—when she still wants to hold my hand and finds joy in simple outings—are fleeting.
At the restaurant, we slid into a booth amid the dark wood accents and ordered our usual favorites: children’s nachos to start, a glass of sauvignon blanc for me, ginger ale for her, along with plain pasta and a Cobb salad. Lately, I’ve been so proud watching Lily confidently placing her own order, looking the server directly in the eye and saying, “Please, may I have.”
As our drinks arrived, she leaned in to sip her fizzy ginger ale, eyes darting around the restaurant, surveying our surroundings and keeping an eye on Sophie. I couldn’t help but watch her, my heart swelling with affection as she noticed me and beamed before turning back to her curious observations.
Lily embodies my past, her chocolate brown eyes holding all my memories of early motherhood, while she also represents my future, pulling me forward as she grows so rapidly. Sometimes, being with her makes me feel as though I’m tumbling through time, lost in a maze of reflections—of her and me, our similarities and differences. This intertwining connection is both the source of my deep bond with her and a wellspring of my concerns about nurturing her well.
“Mommy?” she asked, interrupting my thoughts as she dove into a question about Voldemort. I shook my head slightly to focus and answered her query, and just then our nachos arrived. Her laughter filled the air as she picked up a chip, lifting the entire plate. When our main dishes arrived, Lily raised her glass of ginger ale high for a toast. “Cheers! It’s so much fun to have dinner just the two of us, Mum.” I blinked back happy tears, clinking my wine glass against hers, smiling back at her with a warmth in my heart. Yes, I wanted to say, it truly is. But the fear of tears spilling over held me back. In that moment, a thought thundered in my mind: We won’t come back here.
After dinner, we walked home, fingers intertwined, savoring the precious time we had shared together.
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In summary, this weekend showcased the bittersweet beauty of motherhood, where moments of joy are often tinged with the awareness of their fleeting nature. Cherishing the simple pleasures with my daughter serves as a reminder of the precious bond we share and the inevitability of change.