Jackie Leonard | Four

Four

By Jackie Leonard

In a matter of days, I will cross yet another invisible milestone in life, alongside my oldest child. As he turns four years old, I become a mother for the fourth year. Wiser, more experienced, the novelty of this new role is slightly more subdued than the year before, and still, I am just as clueless about whatever comes next.

Four feels like the completion of something. A closing. Which is fitting because in this last year, we have gone from a family of three to four. We transitioned from a triangle to a square, four sides to make one whole. There was a finality that washed over me at the birth of our second child that surprised me, even though I’d said over and over throughout the pregnancy that I sensed this would be the last.

In the span of four years, I’ve made big decisions, decisions that will impact the rest of my life, and that of my family. Whether it’s my age, or becoming a mother, or a combination of that and more, most decisions during this period of time feel big. This huge shift is what motherhood asked of me, four years ago, as I gave birth to my son and reconfigured what I knew of myself. I’d look into my baby’s eyes and, partly due to sleep deprivation, those big eyes, so like mine, would quote Mary Oliver, accusingly, “What will you do with your one and precious life?” in a way that also begged the question, “What will you do with mine?”

When clothes go out of season, when our bodies change, when what we liked before doesn’t spark joy, it’s time to change it. We replace it with things that fit better. Alongside the pile of outfits that were meant for a past version of myself, I’m also letting go. I can no longer wear complacency. Comfort no longer provides the same . . . well, comfort.

We are also closing a chapter in our lives, packing our belongings past and present, into boxes. We’re selling our home to a new family, a family of two. Six years ago, this was us — newlyweds and a dog — with plans to put down roots and grow into this home. Instead, we outgrew it in ways that have nothing to do with square feet.

I’ve learned there is freedom, not shame, in changing our minds and plans. We are moving. Far enough away to prepare for many goodbyes.

Like I said, big decisions.

It is a decision I am romanticizing, that I am resigning to faith, that I’ve rationalized to death, and that I also am grieving.

By the time I was four I had gone from a family of three — my dad, my mom, and me, to just my mom and me, to my mom remarried and pregnant and me. In therapy I’ve learned to be mindful of these parallels. Be aware that they have an effect on me, which can impact how I parent and how I see my child. It’s not hard to believe that as my son ages, he can be — has been — a mirror, a portal back to my own “things.”

I stare at him. The sweet boy who still needs help getting dressed, who runs away from spiders and toilet flushes, and who looks up at the moon at night and tells me things like “The moon loves you.” — and I think, How? This boy who misses us when one of us is gone an hour. How? This boy who cried when we got rid of the couch without preparing him for it. How? This boy who has rejected every Disney movie I grew up watching because they are too scary. How would my child navigate what I did as a toddler?

Over time the answer to these questions has become more clear and also more complicated. I see more and more how I, the mature-beyond-heryears child, likely responded the same way I know my son would. It just looked different, or was responded to differently.

Four.

By four I had moved homes at least three times, maybe more. New lives with each new roof. I’d even learned to communicate in a new language to adjust to this new life. I was always described as “so good,” “perfect,” “so easy” since birth.

I look at my son, who proclaims “I love our home.” Who has picked up phrases in Japanese from the car videos he watches on YouTube. Who mixes his “you’s” and “me’s” and “I’s.” Who has occasional meltdowns over brushing his teeth, or going to Target, or someone touching his toy the wrong way. Who rough-houses and doesn’t fully understand the concept of personal space just yet, especially with his mom and dad and

sister. Who I would never describe as “perfect” at anything though he is perfect to me, and who I would never rationally expect to be “so good” at just three.

The closer we get to his birthday, the more we are packing our lives away into boxes. In my joy and excitement for this big step, this new chapter, I also hold a sadness that easily brings me to tears. For myself, sure, and mostly for my four-year-old son, who will be saying good-bye to the only home he’s ever known. The home he was born in. The home that he now confidently moves through without needing me beside him. The stairway railing he sends Hot Wheels down en masse, the big bathtub he swims laps in like a minnow, the backyard he digs in alongside an excavator and dump truck and sunbathing lizards.

I brace myself for the “I want to go home’s” and the unexplained meltdowns that even he won’t be able to connect to this change. I ready for my guilt, the urge to be defensive, and the habit to deflect. I prepare to have a better response, to be the comfort he needs, and also prepare to be bad at this sometimes too, far less than perfect.

To be clear, I am just as aware of these truths as I am that kids are resilient, that our family is unique and different than the one I had, this world different. That alongside my son’s own grief he will also experience joy and excitement and his own complex set of feelings about this change, some that I will see and some that I will not. That this experience is an adventure, one that we will walk together and process uniquely, and that the best I can do is model all the feelings for his reference. Mostly, I am aware that a lot of “this” swirling inside me isn’t about my son at all.

Four.

It just could be I’m riding the high of selling an unused item that’s lived in our garage for $80 to someone who can actually use it, but my attachment to things has lessened, extending to the power this house has had over me. So much so that I can see now, that these four walls we are leaving behind are not the stability he needs, or I need or needed.

Maybe all we need instead —

the thing we can provide freely with certainty

— is the security of a hug.

Maybe that’s enough.

This is four.

Jackie Leonard is a life-long writer, Southern California girl, and the founder of Motherscope. She has an MFA in Creative Writing and years of experience as an editor for college and literary publications. However, it was the birth of her first child in 2017, and her experiences in those early days of motherhood, that inspired what would eventually become Motherscope. The things that make Jackie feel most powerful are: the community of women who surround her, writing, and her children. Her garden, cooking, and husband bring her peace.

Engage with Jackie’s Story:

Write about a time when your child’s age, actions, or experiences reminded you of your own childhood. What are the similarities in this shared moment between you? What are the differences? Give attention to the obvious and the subtle.