Becoming Two

I still basked in the early years of motherhood— that warm summer morning after my daughter turned two, when we stopped at a gas station and she released herself from her car seat to sit up front while I pumped gas.

I bought her an apple juice at the convenience store and she took a gulp and smiled at me. Rush hour was over and we were only customers there; no need for me to fill my tank and drive off. The day belonged to us, and as the pump ran, I walked over to the passenger side of the car to talk to my daughter through the opened window.

I found myself in one of those moments when I could not help but admire creation. The sunlight, gold and visible in the air and my daughter, her light brown hair, translucent, wispy and her gray eyes that I suspected would someday turn brown but always remain vibrant, like a golden ember. And her long slender fingers and hands so small she needed to use both to hold the juice bottle steady enough to raise it to her lips. Venny wore lavender shorts, and green jellies on her feet.

“Do you know,” I asked, “how much I love you?”

“All the world.”

Her voice was like music, a bird’s song and I felt that bliss that come with being part of creation and creator all at once—Motherhood engorged with meaning.

After I filled the tank I got back in the car and sat there enjoying. I took my daughter’s hand and massaged her tiny palm with my thumb.

“You have to get back in your car seat.” I gave her hand a little squeeze, “Venny, I just love you.”

“You love me too much.”

There, she said it. She was two and had succeeded in discovering that she and I were separate people. And since I seemed to be having some trouble understanding that, she took the opportunity to tell me.

“Oh,” I said. “Okay. I’ll try not to say it so often.”

My girl finished off the last drop of juice and climbed back into her car seat. She seemed to think further discussion wasn’t necessary.

By Patricia Ljutic