The Heartcracker

“There is a crack in everything / That’s how the light gets in.” – Leonard Cohen

This one is for the mamas. You all have stories about a child who did something(s) that made your chest tighten, your teeth clench, your neck stiffen, and your head spin. I have those stories, too. Lord knows, my mom has those stories. But don’t forget those moments that broke you wide open and put you back whole at the same time – you know those moments when you can’t see anything but light, can’t feel anything but love, can’t do anything but love back.

  

She came at me all grin and firecracker eyes, slap-wrapped her body around my left leg, and asked in a conjured honeysuckle voice, “Mama, will you come to a Mother’s Day Tea in my classroom?”

My heart cracked open.

“Oh, I’d love to, Bunnyhop. Thank you so much for inviting me.”

She untangled herself and flung her arms out, mad-giggling, “Well, who else would I invite? It is a Mother’s Day Tea!”

My heart cracked open.

“Will you help me pick something out to wear, Mama? I want to look extra special, but I don’t want you to see me until the tea. Just help me come up with some possibilities.”

We skittered upstairs. She turned, blocking her door so that I couldn’t enter, and said, “Oh, Mama. Ohhhhhhh, Mama, my room is a wreck. A wreck. A wreck. A wreck. You’re not going to like it. Not going to be happy one bit. It’s okay though. Let’s just work on the outfit for now.”

This was my six-year-old master-distracter giving me a focus lecture. She undersold the wreckage. I walked into some place unrecognizable as a room in our home. My chest tightened. My teeth clenched. I rubbed my neck and massaged now throbbing temples. Syddie, reading and redirecting me, just said, “Outfits, Mama.”

We sorted through option after option after option after option after option. One dress was too tight on her arms. Another, too short. She wanted to wear a sweater like her friend Maddie, but she didn't own one. She wanted to run out to Target that instant. Her white shoes with bows pinched her toes. Hand-me-down dresses weren’t special enough. Her flower girl frock, too fancy. Her lips quivered. Her eyes puddled. She crumbled. And now, next to the mound of strewn, wrinkled misfits and unfits was a pile of huffing, puffing, sighing, sobbing Little Syd. I wanted to cry, too.

I said, “Come on, Bunnyhop. This doesn't feel very Mother’s Day-ish. I’d rather see you wearing a big ole smile than anything else!”

I bear-hugged my little heap and tickled her ribs and made up a silly song about a girl who couldn't find her outfit and couldn't find her happy and almost made her poor mama cry because the girl was looking in all the wrong drawers and behind all the wrong doors, and really she just needed to open her heartcloset.  She said, “You’re SO crazy, Mama.” And I said, “For you, Syddie.” And in the softer light of a little laughter, we fashioned a few ensembles that had at least a fighting chance of living up to her brand of special, but she said she’d have to sleep on it still.  I asked if I should wear something special, too, and she said, “Oh no, Mama. You should just wear your jeans. I like you best when you are just you.”

My heart cracked open.

“I like you best when you are you, too, Syddie.”

“Just maybe not those jeans with all the holes,” she adds.

And just like that, I can’t see anything but light, feel anything but love, do anything but love back.