Hannah Montana Movie-Loved it!

My weekend highlight. I went to the Hannah Montana movie! 14 Apr 2009

I wasn’t disappointed. I was surprisingly entertained. I think my favorite part was when Miley and her dad were sitting up in the barn loft and she was singing a song to him about how he had comforted her when she was scared-- how he sang her to sleep….

As they sang together, I felt my own heart swell, remembering how I sang to my children, many evenings, for much longer than they needed me to. Even after they were fast asleep, I’d keep singing. Somehow, it comforted me, too. It also kept me from going to my bed, and facing the loneliness, and feeling the broken dream between the cold sheets.

Sitting beside my children, watching them sleep, looking so peaceful, filled me with hope that one day, I’d sleep as they do. Soft, slow breathing. Mine quick and shallow with frequent little gasps, as if I had just seen a small rodent scamper across the floor. No rodents, no bugs, a gasp at the realization that my dreams were dying. Death, for the lingering love, was more painful than I thought it would be. I had cried so many tears in the previous years that I really believed I didn’t have any left to cry. But I was wrong. Sometimes I cried for the lost years, realizing that so many had passed that I had just missed, because I was trying to force something that was never going to happen. I was angry a lot. Tired a lot. Scared a lot.

Watching them sleep, singing old lullabies that I hadn’t sang to them in years, became a routine that I couldn’t wait for each night. I never asked them if they wanted me to sing, I asked them what they wanted me to sing. They always had an answer. One night recently, I went to see my older daughter, say goodnight to her or maybe snuggle with her, possibly read her a book. That didn't happen. She asked me to sing her a lullaby. Knowing that she was about to make the transition from little girl to woman came a like striking slam against my chest. I brushed her hair back off her face and began to sing.

She felt my tears on her face, but didn’t ask any questions. I think she knew why I was crying. She, too, knew that something was ending. There were recent small changes. I noticed her figure change, her questions change. Yet, it all happened too fast. I felt as if I was still getting ready to be mother to her, still trying to figure out the recipe, so that I could help her build a strong foundation. I wanted to give her something I was struggling to find. Recently, I’d found it, but I felt as if it was too late.

My baby girl needing so much from me that I couldn’t and didn’t give her, but I gave her all I had. I gave more of myself to her than I had ever given anything in my life. I had tried so hard to comfort that crying baby, that hurting stomach. I tried to show her the rain drops on the street and the little buds on the trees. I took her to the dirt road, rolled down the car windows and let the wind blow in her hair. I let her help me make biscuits and get flour all over the kitchen. But now, those little things seemed to be not enough. I was looking for a big rock to put under her, to give her the security and strength that I never had as a child, so that she could reach places I never made it to.

I had just found that rock, but to me, it seemed that she had already walked on past, she had found another way to climb up on the porch of the house. The porch never had any steps. I see her walking around, knowing that I didn’t get the rock until it was too late. She’s looking in the windows of that house, and I am standing on the ground beside the rock wishing I could say, “Standing on this rock is easier.” But she’s too far away to hear me now. Maybe she will turn around, and she’ll watch me climb up on the rock, to get to the porch, where I'll stand beside her. Then, we can sit on the porch, drink some sweet tea with lemon, and enjoy the view together.