This past weekend, my husband and son hit the slopes, leaving my 8-year-old daughter, Lily, and me at home. Lily is still in the eight-week recovery phase after her recent mono diagnosis. Although she seems to be on the mend, she tires easily. On Saturday morning, we decided to visit the local park, where I jogged while she biked alongside me on our usual route. Typically, she zips ahead and loops back to check on me, but after just one lap around the pond, she nervously suggested we stop. Breathless, she mentioned her legs were tired. I hugged her and agreed it was time to head home. As I loaded her bike into the car, I scolded myself for even taking her out; perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to push her with her lingering fatigue.
Once home, we snuggled into my bed to finish reading Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Each time we complete a book in the series, we celebrate by watching the corresponding movie. Lily sat beside me, her eyes sparkling with excitement, occasionally pausing to ask questions that showed she was fully engaged. The room was dimly lit, with the soft hum of a fan creating a cozy atmosphere. There’s something incredibly fulfilling about sharing these moments with Lily, who enjoys them just as much as I do.
After finishing the book, I rummaged through my closet to find the movie, which I had hidden among stacks of sweaters. Lily’s face brightened when she saw it. “Can I watch that now, Mum?” she began, then quickly corrected herself, “Oh, I mean, may I?” Apparently, my corrections have made an impact.
“Absolutely, Lily.” I set the DVD in an old laptop and pressed play. As she nestled against the pillows, her weariness was evident in the way her small frame slumped. I couldn’t help but remember the days following her mono diagnosis when she napped extensively, often falling asleep in random places like the car and kitchen table.
After the movie, we decided to dine at our favorite restaurant, The Green Fork, just a couple of blocks away. Lily carried her American Girl doll, Emma, dressed in her finest attire, while her other hand slipped into mine. I fought back thoughts of how fleeting these moments are—how soon she might not want to hold my hand or find joy in simple outings just with me.
We settled into a cozy booth and ordered our usual favorites: kids’ nachos to share, ginger ale for her, and a glass of sauvignon blanc for me. Lately, Lily has taken to ordering for herself, confidently addressing the server with a polite “Please, may I have…” which fills me with pride. As our drinks arrived, she leaned in to sip her sparkling ginger ale, her eyes darting around, taking in the lively atmosphere. I watched her, noting how she smiled at me before continuing her observations of the restaurant.
In her chocolate brown eyes, I see my past—the struggles of my early days as a mother—and my future, as she grows at an alarming rate. Sometimes, being with her feels like tumbling through time, a hall of mirrors reflecting both our similarities and differences. This complex bond fuels my deep connection with her while also stoking my fears of not parenting her well.
“Mom?” Lily leaned across the table, her curiosity piqued by a question about Voldemort. I shook my head slightly, focusing on her as I responded. Then our nachos arrived, and she giggled as she lifted one, causing the entire plate to rise. When our main courses came, she raised her glass of ginger ale, smiling widely, and suggested a toast. “Cheers!” she exclaimed. “It’s so much fun to have dinner just the two of us, Mum.” I blinked back tears, clinking my glass against hers, wishing I could express how truly special these moments are, but feared that doing so might lead to tears that would worry her. A thought thundered in my mind: We won’t return here.
After dinner, we strolled home, hand in hand.