We’ve always called it her “nest;”
The corner of the couch, partially hidden behind the Monstera leaves.
She is known to sit there for hours, playing, drawing, staring at her screen.
She has since she was much smaller.
It is obvious it is a comfort to her, sitting there, tucked away from so many outside things.
When I clean the couch, I can feel the indent there that her weight has made; Time eroded.
It is a little burrow of sorts for my 11 year old, Paige.
If she has been there for a long time on any given day, it’s obvious to see.
The arm of the couch will be stacked with wrappers, and dirty cups and plates.
The shelf behind it that my husband built, intended for coffee mugs and books I like displayed, becomes a place for action figures, headphones, old popsicle sticks, and all the things she couldn’t find it in herself to take the ten step journey to just throw away.
She started taking offense to us calling it her “nest” suddenly when she became a preteen.
I just smiled a half-smile, knowing this type of protest was right on time, and just as expected;
Just a new reason to be annoyed with us to add to the 50 other things.
Most nights I am up alone late, long after the family has all gone to sleep.
A mother’s work is truly never done, just like they say.
While the members of my family all simply go to bed, I’m up closing windows, washing dishes, filling out forms, picking foxtails out of the rug; Ever tidying.
Cleaning up The Nest has become as much a part of that job as turning off the porch light.
I sigh and pile up the cups to add to the wash that’s inevitably already running.
I try to unstick several mystery things.
It’s a job I have complained about in my own mind, wishing that – for just one night – I could be one of the ones that gets to just crawl in bed, too, without a care;
Without this Memorial of a Pack Rat staring back at me.
I’ve wondered how I’ve failed her that she could create such a thing.
The other evening my husband was working, and the teens were both at other things.
It was just me and Paige, home alone, quietly closing out our busy day.
Neither of us spoke much that night.
We were both in our own separate worlds, enjoying a bit of calm and space.
I looked at her sitting there, just like always that night, and I felt a different thing:
I felt deeply in my spirit what sacred work it is to create a space where someone we love feels safe.
This little, hidden cove in a chaotic world is an oasis to her, even if it doesn’t look that way to me.
It’s a place where she is free to be her truest self, still when everything is swirling.
Here she is able to have slumped posture sometimes, and be a bit of a mess.
Rules don’t apply in that 3 foot square to her.
She gets to rest and be.
I haven’t failed her at all.
I’ve allowed a space in this world where she feels free.
She knows she’s safe with me, and don’t we all want that feeling, too?
Our own spot in this world – Protected, allowed to show up as we are,
and just be who we’re meant to be?
Last week I sat with a dear friend on that same couch, lovingly nicknamed
“The Couch For People Who Don’t Have It All Together” by a friend who once noticed how often people come to sit there, and cry to me.
This friend and I talked for hours, warm drinks in hand, about all kinds of things,
and at the end she looked me in the eyes with tears rimming them, and said words so precious to my heart:
“Thank you for always making me feel safe.”
We mothers may be up late at night feeling like we are just doing the same tasks on repeat.
It’s easy to feel insignificant when stacking cups and bowls, and continually doing the same old things,
But in this world there are people who feel safe because we gave them a place to be.
Protected by seeds we have planted, free to show up imperfect, to slump their shoulders – “Home Sweet Home” – in relief.
In all the tasks and words I will repeat until my dying day,
I hope the number one thing that is remembered is that I made the people that I love feel like they were completely safe with me.
I like to think that as she gets older, and as Paige moves away,
I will look over at her little spot on the couch and remember the golden light there on that one night,
all the growing things,
the little girl that was once nestled there,
and the nest of plates and popsicle sticks that spoke of feeling safe to me.
Mom Outnumbered
Hi! My name is Kerri Green; Wife to Justin, and mother to four highly entertaining daughters -Alena, Chloe, Tessa, and Paige. I am an artist, a writer, a daycare provider, a lover of people, a believer that there is humor and beauty in all things, and the author of Mom Outnumbered; a blog about real family life, and my observations of it. My goal is to make people laugh, to be there for them when they cry, and most importantly, to let them know that they are not at all alone in this up and down world. I live with my family in Sebastopol California, and I am opening the window into our life. So welcome! Come in. Sit down. Just please don’t mind the mysterious wet spots.
