There were trips to Disneyland and Sacramento. We went to Arizona and Texas. We saw over the fence into Mexico and drove around our own state. There were trips to the mountains and some to the pool. We traveled to Las Vegas and floated down Lazy Rivers.
We mapped out tours in the east to be taken in our somedays and thought about foreign trips in our whatifs. We dreamed about overeating on cruises in our ohyeahrights. Our wanderlust’s passport collecting stamps with each of our dreams.
But by the end of this year, as with every year, my mother’s roots dig down deeper and tighter. The one journey I love most is one I take every night, down my hallway, through one doorway and then through the next. Its through these thresholds I cross the border into my children’s world. My boy, a world of constant disorganization and clothes on the floor. Unfolded clothes stuffed into the closet and his world is changing from child into young man. I walk that hallway and enter his room, and climb the ladder to his loft bed, to blow him a kiss. His bed covered in all the what-in-the-worlds that can be gathered in a week. I love this boy. And my girl, my tiny little dragon, is through the next threshold, sleeps with her bum in the air and her legs curled under her. Her hair is already a wild-thing mess and the blankets are already tossed aside. Her world is filled with baby dolls and teddy bears, blocks and musical things. Books are pulled off the shelves in chaos. I watch this baby sleep and marvel at her journey into this world, how much of a fighter she is, and am in love with the big life that is stuffed into that tiny thing. I love this girl.
I close the doors behind me, to both of these worlds, these now quiet places, and my heart fills. In my midnight travels through the hall of my home*, I have all that matters to me. These two heartbeats of mine are my dreams come true.
*I can already hear my boy saying, “That’s not creepy at all, Mama.”