(no subject)
Title: Thank You, Stars
Pairing: Addison
Rating: G
Summary: A mother, through the eyes of her child. A child, through the eyes of her mother.
Music: Katie Melua: Thank You, Stars
To you, in all your three year-old wisdom and glory and worldly knowledge, she is perfect.
Her smile is the first thing you see by the light of the morning sun, often obscured by your blanket or Mr. Bear but it’s there with a kiss on your nose and a soft ruffle of your hair as she tells you good morning. Her smile is the last thing you see before you close your eyes at night; tucked down underneath piles of blankets and snuggled into pillows, you fall asleep with that image burned in your mind and scary dreams and monsters have left you alone.
She hugs you so comfortingly that your tears stop before you even know they’re going to begin. Her arms encircle you completely with her warmth and love and she stops everything for you; she hangs up the phone, turns down the heat on dinner, stops a conversation with a neighbor if you so much as look up at her with a face that says you might need something.
You love to play with her brilliantly red hair, hair you wish you could have, and you tug lightly at flashy silver earrings because you’re in a phase now where you’ll touch anything that’s shiny. She takes pictures of you with your feet pushed into her big shoes as you toddle around the house flip-flopping and click-clacking with oversized sunglasses falling down your nose pretending to be a movie star. She falls on the grass after playing with you too much and just sits there until you run right back into her and make her fall backwards to stare up at the sky. And if you’re lucky, she lets you play in the mud puddle as long as you don’t try to drink it.
You don’t remember being lost and confused and sad, crying for most of the three weeks you spent alone in a hospital bassinet before you saw her for the first time but you were. And then she stood over you, you officially hers and her officially yours, and smiled softly and didn’t seem to mind that you were teary and upset. You had been alone for the first weeks of your life, administrative mix-ups and rules and indecisive childless husbands and wives kept you there as nurses hushed you when true parents came in to see their children. You were crying when she first touched you, a gentle finger against your curled up fist, and then you hiccupped and opened your eyes to see the tall woman smiling down at you. There was no man at her side and there is still no man at her side but you knew then as you know now and will forever know that she is strong enough to fill that empty space herself and strong enough to carry the two of you.
She carefully picked you up and cuddled you against her chest and even though you were too young to understand, it was the first time in your short life you had been happy. You giggled then and smiled up at her and she kissed away one last tear and took you home with her and she loves you more than anyone else can possibly imagine.
Her calm and steady voice makes you bite your lip and smile as you try to stir the cookie batter while she talks about her day. You know she helps babies get better and mommies stay healthy and that sometimes she hugs you tighter when she picks you up from daycare and other times you wake up in the morning and she’s sleeping beside you with her arms snuggling you close in a maternal protective embrace.
She taps your nose and grins every time she has a present behind her back and you jump up and down excitedly with your short, curly, light brown pigtails bouncing with your every move. Sometimes she hides her car keys and a surprise trip for ice cream, sometimes it’s free things taken from the hospital advertising medicines and you’ll never understand why it’s in the shape of a penguin but it is. But you love it most when she isn’t hiding anything, when it’s a hug and a kiss and an I love you.
--
It was crazy, the month up until you actually got to take her home into the nursery whose walls had been painted a pale warm yellow. Though you were grateful that you were the one who named her, you couldn’t help but wonder what was going on with the husband and wife who pulled out at the last minute. You decided not to ask because once her green eyes locked on your blue, nothing else really mattered. And not much else has mattered since.
You’d be lying if you said it isn’t hard, if it isn’t like working two full-time jobs with the sleep schedule of a college senior. You’d be lying if you said your job doesn’t strike home more. But you’d also be lying if you said you aren’t the happiest you’ve ever been. Even when you’re physically and emotionally exhausted and running on five hours of sleep for three days and accepting the tragedy that is your specialty, her eyes light up when she sees you at the door to the hospital daycare and she sprints toward you and everything melts away and it’s all suddenly worthwhile.
She makes you smile like no man ever has and no man ever will. She makes you laugh and she makes you cry and sometimes she drives you absolutely insane but every time she calls you mommy your heart swells a little larger and the cloud that once made permanent home over your head is driven a little farther permanently away.
You used to hate grass stains and mud and spending time outside rolling around and kicking balls and sitting on the driveway with a big bucket of thick stubby chalk in the middle of the afternoon. You still hate grass stains but only because they’re hard to remove but she’s helped you rediscover that you’re good at sidewalk chalk art and miserable at hopscotch. She draws a stick figure picture of the two of you, your hair electric pink because there isn’t a red chalk, and writes that she loves you beneath it, a proclamation for the whole neighborhood to dare to defy.
They’ve called you, the men that never gave you the happiness that you deserve or made you smile even a fraction as wide as she does. All three of them, trying to apologize or make amends or want to see you, and you’ve told each of them no each time they’ve called. You’re different now and nothing about them fits into your life. Mommy. That’s who you are now. You aren’t Ex-Wife, Girlfriend or Complicated. You’re Mommy. Of all the titles you hold, of all the certifications and degrees and fellowships, that’s the one you’re most proud of and it’s the one recognized and revered by only one tiny person. And you’re quite fine with that.
She wrinkles up her nose when you don’t give her what she wants and at some point you know that you’ll back away from treating her like a total princess but for now, you’re okay letting her stay up a few minutes later or letting her have the last cookie when she really shouldn’t have any more sugar. You also know that at some point you’ll slowly pull back from cuddling with her until she falls asleep because she needs to learn how to do it on her own but the innocence on her face and her steady breathing calms you at the end of even the most hectic of days and it’s nice to hold on to someone you love while they sleep sometimes.
To you, she’s perfect. Even though she doesn’t share any genes with you or look like you or sound like you, she’s absolutely perfect.
Pairing: Addison
Rating: G
Summary: A mother, through the eyes of her child. A child, through the eyes of her mother.
Music: Katie Melua: Thank You, Stars
To you, in all your three year-old wisdom and glory and worldly knowledge, she is perfect.
Her smile is the first thing you see by the light of the morning sun, often obscured by your blanket or Mr. Bear but it’s there with a kiss on your nose and a soft ruffle of your hair as she tells you good morning. Her smile is the last thing you see before you close your eyes at night; tucked down underneath piles of blankets and snuggled into pillows, you fall asleep with that image burned in your mind and scary dreams and monsters have left you alone.
She hugs you so comfortingly that your tears stop before you even know they’re going to begin. Her arms encircle you completely with her warmth and love and she stops everything for you; she hangs up the phone, turns down the heat on dinner, stops a conversation with a neighbor if you so much as look up at her with a face that says you might need something.
You love to play with her brilliantly red hair, hair you wish you could have, and you tug lightly at flashy silver earrings because you’re in a phase now where you’ll touch anything that’s shiny. She takes pictures of you with your feet pushed into her big shoes as you toddle around the house flip-flopping and click-clacking with oversized sunglasses falling down your nose pretending to be a movie star. She falls on the grass after playing with you too much and just sits there until you run right back into her and make her fall backwards to stare up at the sky. And if you’re lucky, she lets you play in the mud puddle as long as you don’t try to drink it.
You don’t remember being lost and confused and sad, crying for most of the three weeks you spent alone in a hospital bassinet before you saw her for the first time but you were. And then she stood over you, you officially hers and her officially yours, and smiled softly and didn’t seem to mind that you were teary and upset. You had been alone for the first weeks of your life, administrative mix-ups and rules and indecisive childless husbands and wives kept you there as nurses hushed you when true parents came in to see their children. You were crying when she first touched you, a gentle finger against your curled up fist, and then you hiccupped and opened your eyes to see the tall woman smiling down at you. There was no man at her side and there is still no man at her side but you knew then as you know now and will forever know that she is strong enough to fill that empty space herself and strong enough to carry the two of you.
She carefully picked you up and cuddled you against her chest and even though you were too young to understand, it was the first time in your short life you had been happy. You giggled then and smiled up at her and she kissed away one last tear and took you home with her and she loves you more than anyone else can possibly imagine.
Her calm and steady voice makes you bite your lip and smile as you try to stir the cookie batter while she talks about her day. You know she helps babies get better and mommies stay healthy and that sometimes she hugs you tighter when she picks you up from daycare and other times you wake up in the morning and she’s sleeping beside you with her arms snuggling you close in a maternal protective embrace.
She taps your nose and grins every time she has a present behind her back and you jump up and down excitedly with your short, curly, light brown pigtails bouncing with your every move. Sometimes she hides her car keys and a surprise trip for ice cream, sometimes it’s free things taken from the hospital advertising medicines and you’ll never understand why it’s in the shape of a penguin but it is. But you love it most when she isn’t hiding anything, when it’s a hug and a kiss and an I love you.
--
It was crazy, the month up until you actually got to take her home into the nursery whose walls had been painted a pale warm yellow. Though you were grateful that you were the one who named her, you couldn’t help but wonder what was going on with the husband and wife who pulled out at the last minute. You decided not to ask because once her green eyes locked on your blue, nothing else really mattered. And not much else has mattered since.
You’d be lying if you said it isn’t hard, if it isn’t like working two full-time jobs with the sleep schedule of a college senior. You’d be lying if you said your job doesn’t strike home more. But you’d also be lying if you said you aren’t the happiest you’ve ever been. Even when you’re physically and emotionally exhausted and running on five hours of sleep for three days and accepting the tragedy that is your specialty, her eyes light up when she sees you at the door to the hospital daycare and she sprints toward you and everything melts away and it’s all suddenly worthwhile.
She makes you smile like no man ever has and no man ever will. She makes you laugh and she makes you cry and sometimes she drives you absolutely insane but every time she calls you mommy your heart swells a little larger and the cloud that once made permanent home over your head is driven a little farther permanently away.
You used to hate grass stains and mud and spending time outside rolling around and kicking balls and sitting on the driveway with a big bucket of thick stubby chalk in the middle of the afternoon. You still hate grass stains but only because they’re hard to remove but she’s helped you rediscover that you’re good at sidewalk chalk art and miserable at hopscotch. She draws a stick figure picture of the two of you, your hair electric pink because there isn’t a red chalk, and writes that she loves you beneath it, a proclamation for the whole neighborhood to dare to defy.
They’ve called you, the men that never gave you the happiness that you deserve or made you smile even a fraction as wide as she does. All three of them, trying to apologize or make amends or want to see you, and you’ve told each of them no each time they’ve called. You’re different now and nothing about them fits into your life. Mommy. That’s who you are now. You aren’t Ex-Wife, Girlfriend or Complicated. You’re Mommy. Of all the titles you hold, of all the certifications and degrees and fellowships, that’s the one you’re most proud of and it’s the one recognized and revered by only one tiny person. And you’re quite fine with that.
She wrinkles up her nose when you don’t give her what she wants and at some point you know that you’ll back away from treating her like a total princess but for now, you’re okay letting her stay up a few minutes later or letting her have the last cookie when she really shouldn’t have any more sugar. You also know that at some point you’ll slowly pull back from cuddling with her until she falls asleep because she needs to learn how to do it on her own but the innocence on her face and her steady breathing calms you at the end of even the most hectic of days and it’s nice to hold on to someone you love while they sleep sometimes.
To you, she’s perfect. Even though she doesn’t share any genes with you or look like you or sound like you, she’s absolutely perfect.