New Moms

The Drawer^R10

Becky S. Tompkins

I don't open this drawer often. I don't like to be reminded of my truncated dreams. Who would have believed that my future would be so hijacked? There in the back of the drawer, stashed behind the pencils, paper clips, and rubber bands, are the luggage tags—pristine, unscuffed, never used. I haven't even filled out the address card in them. And there's the mini-lock I bought for that new suitcase I fully intended to take to Europe. The lock and key are still in the hermetically sealed package, looking out at me reproachfully. And when I pull the drawer out all the way, I see the sandwich baggie of old luggage keys that I used when I was younger.

What had happened? I majored in a foreign language in college and couldn't wait to take off for a life of adventure after graduation. A new country, new people, new culture—it was all intoxicating in its allure.

And it turned out to be all I had hoped. I was single, unattached, free to follow my wanderlust and tackle the challenges. I had family and friends back home, to be sure, but no strangling ties to interfere with my new hedonistic life of freedom, joy, and learning. Exploring the land, my new city, the different food and weather, even the foibles and follies of trying to do my job in a foreign language went to my head like new wine.

Who can explain the feeling of waiting for your breath to come back the first time you see the grandeur and feel the eternal solitude of the Alps? Or the hallowed hush that swallows you inside Notre Dame Cathedral as your eyes involuntarily rise up to the shimmering red, blue, and gold figures in the stained-glass windows that millions before you have also marveled at? It was as if God's own hand had painted them from a divine rainbow to last not just years, but centuries.

I remembered driving down a highway in Greece, guessing from the map that Mount Olympus should be somewhere in the vicinity, and looking slowly up the distant landscape at that one mountain peak cresting over the clouds—and realizing that this was, in fact, the mystical place of all those famous legends. Surely Zeus himself was up on that hazy summit wielding his thunderbolt even in this modern age.

Strauss waltzes piped through the parks in Vienna where music truly sings to the soul, as Vienna serves up Austria's legendary composers to transport the foreign visitor away from modern distractions—classical culture free for the taking out of the air.

The old European tastes, new to this American culinary novice, woke up taste buds I never knew I had. No wonder the decadence of the chocolate and cherry Schwarzwälderkirschtorte brings visitors from around the world to the Black Forest, and the smell of Wiener Schnitzel drizzled with lemon is enough to start you booking a trip to Austria. And those lamb-stuffed tomatoes roasted in sweltering public ovens in Dubrovnik and souvlaki handed out by street vendors in Athens.

Living in other countries offered new sights, sounds, feelings, and tastes that simply couldn't be experienced just from reading books or watching movies. How lucky foreign travelers are, I realized.

But to everything there is a season, and I returned to my homeland older, wiser, and full of precious memories.

I had every intention of returning to those carefree days of hiking and exploring in Europe as soon as I could afford to. But what happened? My peripatetic traveling future was waylaid—by you, my firstborn child.

When you were born, I fell in love again—much different from my love for your father. I learned in one shocking moment why mothers are so fiercely devoted to their children, as if this is our chance to create something of real value for the world.

Suddenly, the majesty of the Alps and the chateaus on the Loire faded to gray behind your baby blue eyes and the halo of your golden curls. The first Mother's Day gift I ever received was a little booklet of poems from your dad, and one about babies said, "You are my Paris and my Rome." It hit home with a pang. How could I give up my prized freedom to roam the glorious world just to be a mother?

How, indeed? I did, and with joy. Maybe it takes time to learn that traveling and new experiences become much more valuable when you share what you have learned with others. Parenting is not just providing food and shelter, lessons in how to behave properly, and even plenty of love. It's sharing who you are and how you came to your life views with your children so they can grow along with you—the feel of that cold chill down the spine inspired by some inexpressible beauty. It's a vital legacy and challenge, every bit as important as teaching them the alphabet and not to use double negatives.

So, as you grew, I showed you pictures of Notre Dame's rose windows. I read you Greek myths so that some day the sudden sight of Mount Olympus rising over the clouds would take your breath away, too.

I played Strauss waltzes and other composers' works of beauty and genius, so you could expand your little musical brain and appreciate the mellifluous amid the cacophony of life.

I recreated the Schwarzwälderkirschtorte and Schnitzel and lamb-stuffed tomatoes in my own kitchen to help give you a sense of adventure in food, so you wouldn't grow up on just hamburgers and French fries but could take a gastronomical trip around the world in your own home.

And I taught you as much of my foreign language as I could, in the hopes that you would grow up understanding the importance and joy of learning about other people and cultures. You deserve no less.

In that desk drawer of unfulfilled travel dreams at home, along with the unopened lock package and unused luggage tags, is our family's pocket birthday book, well thumbed and becoming yellowed with age. There are magic markers, most long out of ink, used for many a school project. And notes from teachers, sports team rosters, old carpooling schedules—souvenirs of a very different adventure than I had intended to continue when I was young and footloose. But it was one of an even greater value—for you and me both. It wasn't a sacrifice—it was a gift, a hand-off from mother to son in that great relay of life. There is simply too much to be seen and experienced by each person in a lifetime, so we need to give the next generation a head start on the wonder.

Yes, Paris and Rome will always be there—but you couldn't wait.

(1170 words)