Magoo told me that I smell good today.
We were sitting on the couch. I had just showered, and my skin had gotten so dry over the past two weeks that I finally took two seconds to search for some lotion. I found some lemon scented lotion that I bought last year for our bathroom, and I slathered it over my arms.
She reached over and put her little nose right against my elbow and took a deep breath. “You smell like banana,” she said. And she smiled.
I didn’t know what to say because it was so weird. It was so unbelievably weird to be thought of as corporal. For someone to recognize that I exist. For someone to smile. To be more than the arms that hug away tears or the hands that tie laces.
I thought about the drawer in the back of my closet. It holds probably a dozen different perfumes. All of them are years old. I don’t think I’ve acquired a new one since being a mom. Some of them remind me of my early adult years, and some harken back even longer than that. A quick whiff of one of the Gap’s signature scents will bring me back to a classroom or a bar room in Milwaukee many years ago. Back when I was Mandy. Before I was Professor Knapp. Or Mom.
I looked at Magoo in that moment, and I made myself a promise. Some day many years from now when she is a mom, I will look at her. I will look at the fatigue in her eyes. I will hear the stress in her voice. And I will look at her, and I will tell her that she is beautiful. I will see her. Not who I want her to be and not who they need her to be. I will see her. And I will take her in.
I will tell her that I see the tension, and I see the love. But I also see her. I will tell her that I still see the little girl who loved to twirl and make up stories. I will tell her that I see her compassion and her strength. I will tell her that I see her sorrow. I will tell her that I see how much she tries. How very hard she tries.
I will look at her hands, and I will notice their callouses and the years that have gone between manicures. But I will also tell her that I see the hands that like to write stories or throw a ball or mold a loaf of bread.
I will look at her eyes, and I will see the mother who never lets them out of her sight. I will see the compassion she shows for those around her. And I will also see the eyes that have taken in the world. The eyes that read the books and saw all of the sights and twinkled by the light of the Christmas tree all those years.
Some people are good at balancing motherhood and self. Many people can even add a job into the mix. Nearly everyone can do all of this better than I can.
I cannot balance. I cannot juggle. I cannot find a way to keep my own head above water while I am treading water for those around me. I lose myself. Way too easily. And to be honest, I don’t know how to reclaim myself.
All I know is that in that moment, when she told me that I smelled pretty, I don’t know if I have felt that loved or that seen or that worthy in a very long time.
That is a gift that she gave me. One gift amongst a lifetime that she shares with me.
I hope that some days I am able to share that gift with others. That I have the strength and the insight to reach across a table, to look into a tired mama’s eyes, and say, “I see you.”
Isn’t that all any of us really want anyway? To be truly seen. To be known. And to be loved despite it all?