I sat on the sofa wide-eyed as a former version of my husband emerged. He moved fluidly through his old aikido motions, using the momentum of his body rather than force to drive his sparring partner to the floor. His sparring partner happened to be twelve years old and giggling the entire time, but nonetheless, a shadow of his former self rose up and hovered in his place.
Hours earlier, he’d searched online for self-defense classes for our oldest daughter, a college student in a rough area of the city. She’d told us a few days prior that she and her roommate had somehow been shut out of campus housing next term, and they wanted to move into an apartment off-campus.
Hence the self-defense google search alongside many, many prayers for wisdom. Parenting a young adult who lives miles away is no easier than parenting a teenager one door over in the upstairs hallway. It may even be harder.
During his google search, as videos flickered across the screen, memories of his own aikido studies rose to the surface. They’d been submerged under middle-age duties for years, but I remember the boy-man who used to practice in the yard of his mom’s house, his reflection flickering smooth and strong in her bay window.
Our youngest kid, his current partner, had never seen this side of him. He told her the names of the moves before gently forcing her to the floor with a slight flick of his wrist. He let her practice the moves on him, and she laughed until tears welled under her eyelids. He showed her how to perform a move or two, and she forced him to the floor, saying over and over again, “Dad, stop faking! You’re letting me push you down!”
I watched from a few feet away on the sofa, and I felt the shadow of my former self rise up too. I’d been his “sparring partner” in the early days of our relationship. I’d laughed as his practiced movements cut through green air on the lawn. I’d felt safe standing next to his tall frame when we wandered city streets or traveled together.
I’d forgotten this hidden part of my husband. Forgotten that we’d lived an entire life together before our three children expanded our world and molded us into something different.
Through her laughter, our girl said, “Dad, I’ve never seen this side of you before!” and I realized through my own laugh/cry tears that I missed him. I love the man he is now–he’s far easier to live with than the twenty-three year old I married–but my goodness, he was untamed and wild and full of passion for every new idea that crossed his path. I’m grateful for the years that tempered his wildness, and more grateful they haven’t tempered, but rather added, to his strength.
But still. There was an us before there was a them. We had loves and practices and weird obsessions before the babies stretched us into new shapes and sizes. We had bad ideas and acted on them. We had rooms in our home we never entered, and we ate hamburger helper for dinner. We left power tools and wallpaper stripper sitting out in the open. We knew things only the young know with their baby faces and scar-free souls.
The kids only know the scrubbed-up, parent versions of us.
I sat on the sofa as my husband and our girl tussled back and forth, her laughter piercing the shadow of our former selves, bringing me back to the present. I sat and wondered if they will ever know all the secrets we keep from them.
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With Mother’s Day approaching, I’ve been thinking of you, Mama. I’ve created a collection of short essays, journal prompts, favorites, and scripture cards for subscribers to the blog. If you’d like to subscribe and receive The Mother Journals: A Collection for Mothers as my gift to you, click here.
If you’re already a subscriber, your copy will be linked below in this letter, simply scroll down! I hope you enjoy it–my goal is for our souls to grow deep as mothers, together.
