Stay as You are a Little Longer, Please

Remi, Chad and Eden were a sweet chorale in the background as Todd, my friends Jen and Jess and I sat down to an incredible truffle-buttery feast prepared by Todd. Always, there is something palpably feel-good about sitting around the table with close friends, and rare is the evening that there is an adult dinner uninterrupted by tangled rubber bands that have to be cut out of hair, chicken nugget craves that have to be satisfied, ringing phones, dogs that need to go out, homework requiring explanation, someone needs a healing hug, a fight that needs breaking up. A missing stuffed animal that has to be found.

Remi Lauren

. . . and along came Remi. Done with her Lego project, she arrived at the table where she remained, anchored to her chair, not missing a single bite of food or morsel of gossip, for the entire meal. She ate salad with us as an appetizer. Told a very funny joke. 

She successfully passed me my glass of wine while Jen kept knocking over her own. She asked relevant and smart questions. Knew when to listen and when to listen even harder. Politely asked me to speak in kid-friendly language, like changing the word timid to shy. She cleared the table for us unprompted. She sat by my side the entire meal, curious, smart, attentive and respectful.

She was sad when told her it was bedtime, but put up no fight. No melee. The chorus of sound from the playroom was from Eden and Chad. Remi was here in the kitchen, at the table, intricately woven into the fabric of my friendships. She quietly arrived, it seemed, at the entry to tween and the exit of little girldom without any fanfare. It didn't arrive with a marching band, loudly announcing its entry early in its approach.

Sitting at the table, connected to that moment, those friends, my daughter, my husband by an invisible thread of love and loyalty, words left me and I was taken over by “Sunrise, Sunset” emotion. Where did the curious toddler who asked “wazzit?” about each item she couldn’t identify go? When did she stop crawling and start winning tennis competitions? Wasn't she just throwing her pacifier across the room? When did she stop playing with her food, using spaghetti for eyebrows and a mustache?

I tried to quietly tell Remi how much I love her, but my words seemed inadequate and wobbly and too emotional for the almost tween at the table. Hugs handed out, Remi was on her way to brush and wash for bed. "Night, love ya," I called out. She stopped, turned around and smiled and then let out an unrivaled burp, "night mom, love you too." Phew. And just like that, for a little while longer, she was my little girl again.