Easter Eve. This is traditionally the day my side of the family celebrates. We get together around 1:30 for a big, “eat-till-you’re-sick” lunch, try to visit with everyone, hide eggs for the little ones, drink cups of coffee all afternoon into evening and oh yeah, think about why we are together.
I was talking today with my niece-in-law, a lovely brunette with a warm smile, who was telling me what it is like to be a mother to her eight year-old son, Winter. I had had a brief encounter with him earlier in the day when I went to put my jacket and purse in the guest room. He was in there, alone, considering a Lego construction. He was sweet and polite and well-mannered as we chatted a bit about school and other eight-year-old things.
I told his mother what a certainly pleasant boy he is. She appreciated the compliment and told me that she believes firmly in teaching your child early about respect for others and to answer with “yes’s” rather than “uh-huhs”. She smiled shyly and said what buddies they are and how special are their evening, pre-bedtime routines. She said it is their time to read together and talk and snuggle.
Last night she was telling him goodnight and he said to her: “Mom, I love you so much. I love you like a bunny’s first hop.” He then proceeded to create a story on the spot, about a bunny learning to hop with his mama at his side. So sweet.
That little story is one of many I could have collected this day. The house was full of young mothers figuring it all out and achieving it very well.
How clearly I remember being the young mother at these family events. My three boys and all of their cousins were the ones standing eagerly at the door, awaiting the grown-ups to finish hiding the eggs so they could begin their search.
And now, little Winter and Talon, Peyton, Kai, Ava, Ryder, Lila, Ezra, Isla, Wren and Jayden are my great-nieces and nephews, those present today. I am that “old aunt” who nibbles their fingers and kisses their noses and gives them cookies and pats their bums and loves them all so very much.
The torch passes. It was passed to me by my aunts and I am now the one handing it off. It is a precious, precarious, tenacious, mysterious relay. Yet, it is so full of love that it is always, always, always like a bunny’s first hop.