The sky this morning is astonishingly pretty, pastel pink and baby blue – colors I despise except on rare winter mornings when a full moon is setting over the mountains and the cold bare trees are sparkling with a layer snow. I stop swearing as I scrape ice off the car. I pay attention.
Even as a new mom, I loathed traditional pink and blue. But I didn’t clothe my kids in edgy black; I figured there’d be plenty of time later for them to embrace goth sophistication and ink and piercings (and right I was, but that’s a story for another day). Little kids need to live life in full color.
Adults need that, too.
A college friend’s elegant mother always dressed in shades of taupe and beige. She seemed so effortlessly chic and put-together that I mimicked her for a while – and consequently disappeared into the woodwork.
It was like realizing that my legal name would have been E. Race, had I married my first fiancé. This, when my self-confidence was shaky to begin with. Worse, he threatened to name his children Horace and Otto.
Sometimes, God sends you signs you can’t miss.
Today’s infant sky makes me think of my own babies, now 28 and 24. How did that happen? How many pink and blue mornings have I let slip away, like those little boys?
Then I slap myself around and snap out of it. Maudlin never does much for me, especially in the morning. Nostalgia won’t defrost the damned windshield. Wishin’ ain’t gettin’.
Besides, if I still feel like the woman in this picture, then Sons #1 and #2 are the same as well.
We’re all still as perfect as we once were, more or less. At least when seen through a sentimental pink and blue lens.