The other day, I called David to the front window. I wanted him to see what I was seeing—a large man—broad shoulders, narrow little hips but an imposing belly—dressed all in black bike leathers, sporting a shaved head and a scruffy goatee, waiting to cross the street toward the park. He walked about like you would expect him to—leaning back slightly, each step swinging from shoulder to shoulder. But the thing I wanted David to see was that in his right hand, he was carrying a sippy cup. A bright green plastic sippy cup with an orange lid, and he walked toward a small woman, also in bike leathers, pushing a blue plaid stroller into the park.
It was the tenderness that caught my eye—the outward markers of rebellion, yet carrying a sippy cup and pushing a stroller, going back to the car (or maybe the bike) to making sure there was juice for the playground. It was that scene that I wanted to point out to David, the sweetness of it, but the thing I remember about it now was saying the word—or words I guess—sippy cup out loud. Just after I said it, I felt the zip of surprise, followed by a deep well of sadness. It actually brought tears to my eyes.
Yes, because of the sweet biker couple, but more because I realized I probably hadn’t uttered those words aloud for years. I hadn’t said sippy cup or binky or teething ring in recent memory though my life had once revolved around making sure my bag was packed with a snarl of plastic totems that kept our life functioning and peaceful. At the time, it felt like that was my life. That parenthood meant carrying a bottomless bag so that I would never be without juice or wet wipes or a ziplock full of Cheerios. But now, it isn’t. It is something else.
There must have been one day that was the last day that I carried that enormous bag. There must have been one last morning that I poured apple juice for the car. There must have been an afternoon that I took all the sippy cups and donated them to Goodwill or gave them to a friend with younger kids. I don’t remember now. But I do know that those days that seemed like they added up to an eternity—those days full of spills and plastic and Cheerios—slipped by in an instant.
And I know these days will too. A few weeks ago, a friend asked me what I had done over the weekend. I replied I drove children all over creation for sporting events. Then, I washed socks. She said quietly: I miss that. I was a little a skeptical. Really, I said? Even the driving? Even the socks? Yes, she said. Even all that.
And I know now that she is most certainly right. If a biker and his sippy cup can reduce me to this puddle of nostalgia, the day will come when I will miss the 9 am soccer game in the driving rain; when I will long for someone to ask me for help with her Algebra, as ill-suited as I am to offer it; when I will wish that somebody would sing along with Rihanna at the top of her lungs in front of my bathroom mirror while I try to get ready for work. I will feel then about muddy soccer socks the way I do now about the illusive sippy cup. I will be one of those women who smiles wanly in the grocery store and whispers it goes by so fast.
