I sit in a coffee shop without my boys for the largest chunk of time on my own in months. And it’s the best kind of autumn day. The cool air is breathing fresh life into the fading heavy summer heat. The sun still shines but the leaves are brilliant, changing colors of deep red, orange, yellow, and pale green. I’m in a spot in the corner for its vantage point—I can see everyone, watch everything. I like to try to understand who people are and what their lives are like. Only there’s this large plant at my back with a leaf that keeps tapping my head like the anxiety that keeps creeping up from being away from my children. I have to keep deciding to stay despite both asking me to move. I sip my steaming coffee and dodge both my anxiety and the leaf, and my gaze turns towards outside–the large wrap-around windows allow me to witness the movement of everyone.
As I continue to take in this space, both literally and figuratively, I briefly take note of you entering with your two boys. Each seems slightly older than both of mine by a year or two. You must have placed your items, your coat and purse, at a table and I did not notice. With your coffee ready you set it down at that same table. But just as your youngest son reaches his limit your older son’s drink is now ready too. I don’t know what triggers that limit but like a master juggler you manage to grab the drink and bring both boys to the bench outside I can only assume so he does not disrupt all of us sitting inside. It seems your time to be in the coffee shop to sit and sip your drinks has come to an end. I feel your discouragement. Since I have become a mom myself, I am increasingly disheartened by our society’s lack of grace and allowance for babies and young children to exist in public. I know you feel that pressure too so you ask a stranger right inside the door if he wouldn’t mind grabbing your things from the table as you stay close to your boys outside. He kindly brings them to you. And like the fallen leaves blowing in the wind you quickly whisk away, ending your time at the coffee shop. I think you have all the strength and courage of any man or woman who’s attempted to climb Mount Everest, of anyone who’s faced the unknown in harsh elements, of anyone who can only put one foot in front of the other because they cannot see or imagine beyond that. It’s hard to put into words just how strong and courageous you are. You have had to admit you cannot simply go to a coffee shop with just yourself and your boys and sit. You cannot do what you hoped for. You have had to ask for help. I wish I had told you how brave you are.
Accompanied by your mom, about ten minutes later, you walk in with your newborn baby three weeks old (I know because I later asked). It may have been your first trip out since you had given birth. You find a table and, because your arms are filled up with life that came from your very own, you have to move the chair out with your foot. You sit and it seems you take a breath from the journey of getting here. And I think of the breath, the rest, the trees are entering as winter approaches. Your own mother comes up and asks what you’d like to drink. You tell her and she orders while you finish feeding your tiny baby. It seems that as you sit longer alone your raw emotions rise to the surface. And honestly, mine do too. Only a few months ago I had a little one that tiny and I remember what it was like. I remember the exhaustion, that raw emotion. I remember feeling the weight of caring for this precious life and feeling the other worldly love and adoration. I remember feeling like it was the hardest thing I had ever done and also knowing I would enter into it all over again. Because that’s the thing—life is always worth the sacrifice. And I know you feel it all too. You do not stay long. And as you leave you patiently wait for a group of people to exit before making your move. I wish they had taken note of the labor it took you to bring forth life and kindly honored you, the life you created, and the one that created yours by simply allowing you to go first. I wish I had told you you’re doing wonderful and you’re living in such beauty but I didn’t. It feels trite to say such things. Words cannot hold the galaxy of living.
Two minutes later your husband holds the door for you and the stroller you push with your six month old laying inside. You seem well rested and put together and, if I’m being honest, I’m a little envious of you. But I also can’t help but celebrate you. Many of the rough first year days are now behind you. You are finally feeling like yourself again and, likely, your hormones have leveled and helped in that. You now more easily take family walks to the local coffee shop and grab donuts afterward. You follow me there. It isn’t easy but it also isn’t so hard anymore. I wish I had told you that you’ve done so well and you look so great. I’m reminded of this refreshing autumn warmth and light by you. It’s the kind that wraps around with its long rays, it is not burdened and heavy but airy and lingering. It’s the kind that brings comfort.
Coffee Shop Moms, I see you—your weariness and your love, the nurturing you give. As I sit and look at the colorful autumn leaves holding on before death, your sacrifice is a display more bright and bold than theirs. Your dying each day to yourself and your desires releases a full array of color only to find new life will burst forth from you. Each moment you sustain that living life by your own death. Each moment you find that in that death, life has also been restored to you.
Moms, I will always see you.
This was beautiful to read! I love the imagery throughout (love the part w the leaf in thr beginning), and I could see myself as each person in the essay, in various stages of motherhood. Lovely work!!