I heard Fergie going on about getting it started up in here and blinked awake, mildly frightened. Then a scuffle in the dark living room, as two of my people passed each other in the dim morning light. Fergie approached, her wailing reaching volumes my sleepy ears wanted to repel.
“My alarm won’t turn off!”
It wasn’t Fergie at all. It was my daughter, whose phone appeared stuck in permanent alarm wake up get out of bed mode, to the tune of the Black Eyed Peas. Fergie continued to beckon us to get the party started and I wanted to hurl her through the window—Fergie, not my daughter. Finally, she ceased her caterwauling—again I mean Fergie— as my husband disabled all future emissions of party prompting.
As he was fumbling with Fergie, I pulled my girl into bed and wrapped my arms around her. Her breath slowed. Her eyes closed in that lineless way of the totally relaxed.
I listened to her quiet sleep sounds and marveled at this 13 year old Amazonian beast girl. Her legs stretch father down the bed than mine. Her feet fill shoes I could never hope to fit. She is tall and healthy and strong but she’s just a kid. My kid. A kid who will crawl into bed with her mom.
I was in my own mama’s bed, a wild and wandering 13 year old, checkin in with Mom on a quiet Saturday morning. My sister and I often found our way into her bed while Dad made her coffee. We dozed for a while, and then she would hold our hands, stroking our fingers, touching our foreheads with her soft hands.
Ten million other thoughts and ideas, prompted by the simple act of Fergie unwilling to shut it. I knew how to use the snippet of snuggle time in the next book. I knew that so many girls and boys don’t have mamas who snuggle. I saw, too, this sort of family pride I harbor. I know I will explore these ideas. But for now, I stroke this big girl’s forehead and know.
Memory and the mind are funny. I wait for weeks and weeks to answers. I thrust up my hands in frustration. Because I don’t feel like writing. I don’t feel like praying. I am swirling, and I have lacked the will to resist. Waiting for answers is stupid. It feels pointless. It seems like a giant time suck. It feels inefficient and pointless. But then. In a moment, unplanned, unexpected, and seriously, Fergie? with my daughter’s flax hair and without her knowledge, the answers arrive. The ideas. The peace of wanting. The sour tang of impatience dissolves, or is now a sweetly satisfying ghost. I had felt like the waiting was endless, but in the moment, I forget all that handwringing.
The swirling stops and I am resting.