limbic connection

Tonight, cuddling in a big family pile on the couch, I asked Aidan what it was like to be loved as much as he is loved. He laughed and said, “It is so good in my limbic system!” This shows that we’re geeks here to talk about these things, but it’s also so true. What beautiful limbic systems we must have.

It has been one of those days where I wonder why on earth I’d ever leave New Zealand. I had a lovely day working on the leadership development programme I’m teaching right now and feeling the deep and abiding satisfaction of helping people come to a new place with their skills and relationships. Then it was to school to watch Naomi’s netball trials, Aidan playing in the schoolyard around us. It was too sparkling an autumn day to stay at home at the end of the practice, so we headed out to the big sweeping low-tide beach. The sun was hot and the wind was cold; there were goosebumps on my bare legs, but the sand was soft and warm underfoot. We walked to the stream because Aidan wanted to climb and build and play there. Once we arrived, Naomi, oh-so-grownup now, told me that she would neither climb nor play nor build, because she was too mature to do such things. But she said it with a lilt, teasing herself as much as she was teasing me. And when she passed by me 90 seconds later, her arms filled with driftwood, she explained that she was not building nor playing but rather creating a way to cross the stream. When I pointed out that she could perhaps use the bridge to cross the stream, she turned pointedly away from the big bridge span and returned to her driftwood piles. The rest of the time there was spent in the earnest construction of a bridge structure (as it has been every time we’ve been to the stream in the past two years) and the pealing laughter and adolescent shrieking when the bridge turned out to be less reliable than planned.

On the way home, Naomi kept the subtle mocking tone. Pulling my arm tight around her, she teased about the hideous puddle (the sea), the vast rubbish piles (the hills) and the annoying mud (sand) underneath us. We laughed about how ugly it was in the sparkling sun. She affected the humourless big girl who was finding everything boring and impossible, and then disintegrated into giggles. We chased each other through the shallow water, our mirror images laughing and splashing along with us.

So here is the great benefit of this mother-of-a-tween life. Naomi is big enough to be incredibly interesting, her ironic sense of humour making me laugh so hard tears poured down my face in the wind. And she’s small enough to still want my arm wrapped hard against her, still want to stop and hug me in the sunlight. She is aware enough of her own foibles to be playful with them, even as she is caught by them. She knows that her perfectionist tendencies are absurd, and she is still a perfectionist. She knows her jealousy of a friend is limiting, and still she is jealous. She is big enough to watch herself—and feel amused, dismayed, proud, frustrated, joyful. And I watch her and feel all those things too.

Today was just about joy, though, about a dog running in circles the stream, Naomi’s purple jandal flip-flopping in his mouth. It was about cuddling on the couch while a smelly wet dog left sandy dog prints all around us. It was about admiring my children so hard I thought my heart might burst. There are times when parenting seems a trial, when every sentence feels like a conflict, when every word is a limit that needs setting. And there are days like today, when each act of parenting feels like a gift, when I don’t even regret that I’ll never hold my sweet baby children in my arms again because holding my lanky articulate children is so uniquely satisfying.

May each of you, gentle readers, be filled with love for someone precious today. It’s really good in your limbic system.