Rain Boot Memories

By Sonya Spillmann

Rushing from my minivan, I walk through the parking lot towards the grocery store wearing navy blue scrubs and flip flops—it’s still warm here, and I haven’t had time yet this morning to put on my work shoes. I take the side entrance to the store, and choose the stairs over the ramp. Looking down at the first step, at my toes, a memory flashes in my mind: different navy scrubs and similar flip flops, slid into after kicking off my clogs, my feet singing after being freed; all those 12-hour night shifts, after which I’d head into to the local bakery, me bleary-eyed and hungry, buying bread and pastries to offer my kids when I got home.

By the top of the stairs, a smile forms. How many years ago was that time? 

Walking into the store, I grab a gray basket and quickly turn left towards the prepared food. It’s my boss’ birthday and the staff was supposed to bring in a contribution in for lunch. Except I forgot until five minutes ago. My plan is a fruit tray or a vegetable platter, both of which will surely be overpriced.

I navigate around a slow-moving mom wearing a maroon shirt, black stretch pants, and comfortable tan shoes. Her hair is in a high bun. She has an enormous bag slung over her shoulder. Her cart is empty of food, but holds a blond-headed toddler with world-class chubby cheeks. He staring up at her and singing. She coos at him, and again, I’m smiling, witnessing this exchange, so familiar and easy between mother and child. 

At the prepared foods, I grab a vegetable tray and head back to the self-check out area to overpay. Receipt in hand, I turn, ready to leave, but my heart catches, as if tripping on itself. Another mom stands with her back facing me. Only a few items are in her cart: bananas, fruit pouches, milk. In the seat, another little boy. His blond curls and creamy soft skin, remind me of my own son. He wears black and yellow rain boots. It is a clear blue-sky day. 

Earlier this morning, before I left for work, before this last minute errand, I’d made my two youngest kids’ lunches. One likes a ‘snack lunch’—essentially a charcuterie board in a transportable bento box. The other: PB and J. Before they walked out the door, I had to remind one to take his viola, the other her library books. I gave each a kiss and a hug and then walked outside with them to the end of the driveway where I stayed, and they continued on—because they walk to school on their own now. 

Earlier in the year, my husband and I decided they were old enough to walk with their friends the short third of a mile down the road to the school. But there’s still a part of my heart that wants to be with them: to protect them, to spend time with them, to make sure they know how much I love them. As if this one act is necessary, on top of all the others, for them to understand my mother’s heart. 

The other day, I had asked, “Do you mind walking to school alone?” 

I had the time that day to go with them, but wanted to know if they wanted me to walk them to school. I wasn’t asking their permission, I simply wanted to have a conversation—this, too, a change that happens as your kids get older. From instruction to collaboration. From keeping safe to giving them space to grow. They both looked at me like I’d told them I’d put squash in their lunches. 

“You don’t have to,” my son said, kindly. 

“It’s okay,” from my daughter, a bit too fast.   

“But do you like it when I walk you?”—honestly, honestly thinking the answer would be a resounding Yes. 

“You can come if you want,” my son said, maybe he shrugged, but definitely sounding as if he was doing me a favor, allowing Mom to walk them to school. 

Wanting clarification, I asked more directly, “But do you like when I walk with you? Is it comforting?” I smiled, and I felt my chest squeeze a little. “Like when I’m with you, when I go with you, does it make your day go better?”

Oh, what it is to be a mother. To be so needed, non-stop, for so long … until we are no longer needed.