Maid - Stephanie Land Page 0,70
across from her at the table, holding my coffee close to my face, watching her gobble down bite after bite. She smiled at me with full cheeks, the blueberries staining her lips. I smiled back, trying to hide the tears in my eyes, trying to mentally record that moment, to meditate on it when I needed to. Our lives went by too quickly in the often chaotic dance of work, dinner, and bedtime. I knew she’d grow out of her Ramona Quimby bob. She’d soon stop playing with the My Little Ponies that she’d lined up in a half circle, facing her bowl. Whenever I ached for her, either at work or when she was at Jamie’s, these were the moments I replayed in my head. The moments I wrote about.
I’d started a writing exercise whenever Mia took a bath or was otherwise preoccupied: ten minutes of constant typing of whatever was on my mind. Sometimes I wrote in the morning on weekends, and the paragraphs were full of good weather, plans to enjoy it, or a secret spot I felt excited to share with my daughter. Other times I wrote after Mia was asleep, after an exhausting day of her fighting me through every transition and turn. I’d try to pull out of my memory a sweet exchange, bring to the forefront a passing primal connection only a mother and a child could have, and write it down. It became more like a baby book for Mia than a journal. Most of all I knew, years later, I’d look back on this time as one with decisions and tasks too much for one person. I’d need to think on these times with a fondness, too, since she’d quickly be so grown up. Even though we lived in the place we did, and I worked at a horrible job, and we couldn’t afford much, I’d never get this time with her back. Writing about it was my way to appreciate and create a nice picture of our life, our adventures. I figured, if anything, maybe I could print them out into a book for Mia to read someday.
Our favorite beach spot was at Washington Park, on the western side of Anacortes. We sat on the rocks, waiting for low tide, then looked for creatures in the little pools left behind.
“Look at that crab, Mom!” Mia would say. I’d squat down, pulling the yellow shovel out of the red plastic bucket, and try to scoop it in for a closer look. “Don’t let it pinch you. It will pinch you, Mom!” Out in the distance, the ferries went by, and every so often we’d see a porpoise, sea lion, or eagle. I brought Mia’s little bicycle in the back of my car, unloading it so she could ride the two-mile paved loop, forgetting how long that was, and ended up carrying both Mia and her bike for at least the last half mile. On the way home, we would stop by an ice cream parlor that had been there since I was a kid. I called it “Ice Cream for Dinner.” Mia never got anything but chocolate, covering most of her face with its stickiness.
Other weekends, I’d go online in search of hidden waterfalls, creeks with swimming holes. I’d pack a leather-handled basket with a blanket, a change of clothes, a towel, and snacks for Mia, and in a few minutes we were out the door. The only cost was the gas to get us there and back.
These times were our happiest, perhaps because of the simplicity. I’d let her ride her bike downtown, with me trotting behind her, to get an apple from the store. On the off chance it rained, we’d stay in, do a puzzle, or build a fort. Sometimes we’d fold out the love seat and I’d let Mia watch as many DVDs as she wanted, like a weekend-long sleepover.
I didn’t know it then, but those weekends, that still life with Mia, was what I’d look back on with the most nostalgia. Even though some trips were utter failures, ending in temper tantrums and screaming matches that left us both crumbled and hollowed out, those hours with my three-year-old were precious. She’d wake me up by crawling into bed with me, wrapping her little arms around my neck, soft curls framing the sides of her face, whispering in my ear, asking if we could be pandas that day. Suddenly, my week of teeth-grinding grit would fade. And