Heart of hearts

Sometimes in the mornings, I go for a walk. It's then I best appreciate the cool crisp of the day, the snow bluish gray, clouds that seem to be caught in the trees. My boots crunch through the surface and I make my own tracks, laying a trail in the windswept field. I'm reminded of the Snowy Day and the little boy in the book and his stick. It also occurs to me that lately, all my references are to children's stories, so firmly rooted am I in the world of my kids.

But there are advantages to this way of living: I find myself paying attention, since I've been a mom. And more often, I see the world from a child's perspective, which is filled with newness and wonder. It feels like a second chance: I used to love the world in this way, when I was a child, only in growing up, I mostly forgot. Now, I hope I can remember to look with a child's eyes, even when my children are grown.

I walk until I reach the dilapidated wooden shed that holds an abandoned Kenmore electric range and a lime-green wringer washer, dented on one side. An old headlight hangs from the wall, next to rusty hubcaps and part of a screen. My eyes take in each of these things, trying to see them clearly, as they are, just as they might look to a child, when I notice something I've never seen before--an old branding iron. The brand is in the shape of a heart.

On my way home, I notice other things too, like the way the wind sighs through the trees and makes the barbed wire sing; the way the snow pools in the draws, which is where the trees grow, and that there are other tracks in the snow besides mine--coyotes, and rabbits, and deer. The deer tracks look like little upside-down hearts.

Today is Valentine's Day and I'm seeing hearts everywhere.

I think about the symbolic giving of hearts, versus the real giving of hearts. I remember long-ago Valentines when Tom and I were a new couple, and I used to get that flipping feeling in my stomach just being near him. Then later, days full of love still, but different. I never tired of watching Tom hold our first baby, Carter, in his arms, knowing this man was the best father I could have chosen, if I'd been thinking ahead that far.

Our second pregnancy brought more surprises: twins Avery and Bennett, and Avery's genetic condition. One of the things I was told to expect as a new mom to Avery was that my marriage would suffer. My experience has been that Avery's diagnosis was an opportunity to learn about my husband: the chance to see him in a new light, watch him love without expectation of reward, without any guile or deceit or self-interest. Simply, love. Seeing Tom with Avery, I realized that the man I married is a person I deeply admire--my guide, my partner, my strength when I don't have any, a soul I'm honored to know.

Down syndrome, the diagnosis, with all its statistics and uncertainty and unknowns, is still sometimes scary to me. The worry, and the fear, are big and powerful and looming, not different from the fear I occasionally feel for my other children, but more lonely, because there are fewer people walking this path with us.

The best way to quiet my uneasy mind, I've found, is to look at what's in front of me--the things I can count or touch or hold. The number of months Avery has been healthy; the purple crayon marks in the shapes of letters; the boy, himself.

It's easier, then, when I set aside what I've been told to expect, or the things I read, and just look at my life, Avery eating yogurt in the mornings (he calls it "yo-yo"), or the children racing around the house playing tag. Blanket forts and library books and sugar cookies; later in the day, macaroni painted pink and red, glued on cardboard hearts for Daddy.

I don't know what the future holds, for any of us. I think of the many hearts around me: heart-shaped branding irons and deer tracks in the snow and 3 little boys, proud of their artwork for dad. All I have is today, and this heart, and my love to give. It's not a mistake to give it. Of this, I am certain.