Tiny Pieces
His fingers move fast.
They pull pieces apart and together in ways that make perfect sense, but only to one of us.
We sit on the floor facing each other.
Knee to knee, almost eye to eye, the way that a lifetime ago I had my students sit, carving out a small space in a big classroom beneath fluorescent lights that could only be described as School.
In this small space the beige carpet is rough between us, “Daddy’s Jazz” is smooth around us.
Bright sunlight, winter’s gift to Minnesotans, shines against new snow, slants through tightly closed windows.
My transplanted from California skin is thin and (sometimes) whiny, so as the calendar turns and the temperature lowers, we spend more time indoors.
We’ve spent our morning right here.
Earlier, we buttoned up December’s relics – glittery and shiny and so very well loved – each one carefully boxed and put away for another year.
He wanted to figure them out, see how they work, how they fit.
But I hurried us through, nudging and reminding and Be careful-ing him until finally we were done and the room felt bare once again.
While I love all that glitters and fills, I like this way, too. I can breathe in here.
And right now I do,.
I breathe and he sits on his knees, in the way that children do with ease, as he makes sense of his toy.
Unlike this morning, I let him be.
We sit close. I face him, noting his tiny fingers holding equally tiny pieces in shades of childhood – the brightest of blues and reds and yellows.
He looks up through hazel eyes and long lashes and bed hair that refuses to be tamed.
“I’m all done now,” he says, each of his hands tightly wrapped around pieces still taken apart. He gets how they work; their job is done.
He slides into my lap and leans back, I fit my arms around his small frame, lace my fingers at his delicious tummy.
And while my job here isn’t done, like Brody, I get how something here works.
It’s this place between us, sans glitter and bare in the good way, and I too am keeping my fingers tightly wrapped around my pieces.
Galit Breen is a Minnesota writer. On any given day she can be found juggling three kids, one husband, one puggle, and her laptop. Galit writes women's fiction, is the series editor of Pens and Paint, an anthology of children's poetry and artwork, and is co-producing Listen to Your Mother Twin Cities 2013. Galit blogs at These Little Waves and - it has to be said - tweets and Facebooks a lot.
25 Responses to “Tiny Pieces”
Sobbing. Sigh. This is beautiful.
xoxo
Thank you, sweet friend, so very much. xo
What a sweet moment to share with all of us. I miss the days when I could scoop my girls onto my lap comfortably and wrap my arms aroumd their little kid bellies. It’s good to stop and soak up the closeness.
Love that last line, and know how you mean it. Soaking it in, indeed.
Thank you so much for the note, my sweet friend.
xo
Letting them be – sometimes, that’s all there is to it, isn’t it?
(my 3 year old loves figuring out how things work too!)
Indeed.
{And, like you, I so love how little boys work! Who knew?! #BoyMamas}
Thank you for the note, my friend, so very much!
xo
Absolutely lovely. Three is wonderful and watching them figure out the world is especially amazing.
Amen to that, every last bit of it.
Thank you for the comment girl, so very much.
You remind me to wrap my arms around my kids more NOW, while I can… xo
That’s my goal, sister! Let’s go hug our sweeties, mmkay? And then meet for coffee? #AGirlCanDream
Thank you for the note, and for getting me like I know you do.
xo
What a beautiful reminder that it sometimes we don’t need the flash and glitter of the big moments; it is in those quiet, bare moments that we often feel closest to our children. (Also, you’ve reinforced how much I want to hold onto my pieces, too.) So lovely.
Oh how you take my breath away with your kind, your eloquence and how your heart works so very much like mine.
Thank you for this. {So, so very much.}
xo
I can so identify with this. I’ve been writing a lot along these lines lately as my 3-year-old boy has begun his preschool journey. I love the space, but miss his closeness all at once. As always, the way you spin words is magical. Thank you for sharing your gift with us.
Thank *you* for every last bit of that loveliness and kindness.
{And yes, loving the space, but missing the close. I so, so get that.}
Again, thank you, so much.
xo
Keep them little as long as we can…these precious moments are so fleeting. I love these moments you capture and write about.
P.S. I get a little ‘whiny’ in this cold stupid winter weather too ;)
Oh how I adore you for getting fleeting, and whining.
Thank you, girl, for both.
xo
So beautiful. I’ve laced fingers around delicious tummies all week long here and loved every minute of it.
Love that about you, and love this comment. Thank you for both. xo
Poetic Galit – beautiful.
Thank you, friend. Truly. xo
I felt like I was in the moment with you, Galit. You capture these moments of motherhood so beautifully!
Thank you so, so very much, girl. That means the absolute world to me.
Gah! This is beautiful. So unbelievably beautiful. I love how you need to take some things apart to see how they work best, but you need to put other things back to right before seeing how they work best.
(And yes, though I love Christmas decorations, I can breathe a little freer now that they are finally put away!)
Oh Laura, thank you for your visit and your note and your being in it with me-ness. I so, so appreciate every last one of those!
Thank you, friend, truly.
Gia turns 3 in three days and I could sit and stare at her taking in her surroundings all day long. The way you write about Brody makes me a) Wish we lived closer so they could discover the world together and b) Makes me want to write down every single moment with her so I don’t forget a single bit of it. Lovely words for a magical time.