The Christmas after Sloppy Joan was born, Santa brought a Step2 Up & Down Roller Coaster. It came in five parts that snapped together to create the perfect tricolor wave of exhilaration. The toy spanned a good portion of our basement, and was a hit with the chicks and their friends. I can still hear a three-year-old Spike: “Now me again, JoJo,” she’d say. “One, two, fwee … blast off!” JoJo was immediately more daring. An angel face with a daredevil spirit, she was going backward and standing on the canary yellow cart within weeks.
If I close my eyes I can still hear the echo of the wheels coasting down the track. The rhythmic roll of plastic on plastic, immediately followed by giggles and proclamations of who was next and how they were going to do it. It might as well have been the biggest coaster at any overpriced amusement park in America.
Over the years, the riders became more inventive and adventurous. Once those little stinkers learned that the coaster could be disassembled, nothing was off the table. They would take pieces of the track and use them as slides, ramps, obstacle course components and, well, a steeper roller coaster. One afternoon, after hearing the same familiar roll at an alarmingly faster cadence, followed by a bang, I came down to see the coaster on the steps. They aren’t stupid though, as JoJo pointed out. They put cushions against the wall at the bottom so they had something to run into.
Time passed, chicks grew, and I started to hear those wheels less and less often. A few months ago, Hank came into the room where I was working and said, “You know we should think about giving that roller coaster to my cousin. He’s got his little boy with one on the way. It would be perfect for them.” I agreed without much thought – our crew was well over the recommended weight limit after all – and we loaded the track and cart into the back of their SUV on a blustery winter morning.
A few hours later, Hank’s cousin’s wife sent me a video of their little boy laughing and smiling and chanting, “Again! Again!” Then those familiar wheels, plastic on plastic, rolling across the waves of color and off the other side. Pure joy.
Once the coaster was gone, we really started looking at the other things collecting dust in our basement. An adjustable toddler basketball hoop, a tiny workbench, fake food in every make and model. Slowly, we began purging the things that didn’t fit our family anymore. Artifacts of expired infancy. Kid stuff.
We were recently gifted a Peloton (yes, we joined the cult!) and decided to rearrange our basement to break up the space in a more meaningful way. Gym equipment on one side, entertainment area in the corner and desks at the bottom of the steps. The toy area, as it turned out, received the smallest piece of the plot.
Once it was all done, Hank casually said, “I noticed something down there. The kids’ area is pretty small. I guess we’re entering a new phase.”
And with that observation, it all came hurling back at me. The giggles, the rides on a 10-foot track that seemed to go on for miles, the picnics, the hours of pretend. Our world, once painted exclusively in primary colors, slowly changed to an entirely different palette when we weren’t looking.
I’m learning that being a mother means endless joy and endless mourning. Just when you’ve made friends with your grief about the passing of one chapter, another ends. If you aren’t quietly accepting that you’ll never look into your baby’s eyes during a 2 a.m. feeding again, you’re swallowing the pain of them walking into kindergarten or losing their endearing speech impediment. It’s a domino trail of sorrow and acceptance. Every new milestone means the loss of something you knew. Something you cherished. Something perhaps you took for granted.
These days I’m more likely to hear the familiar turtle shell and mushroom rewards from Mario Kart rising from the basement than anything else, and that’s OK. But I wish I would have realized how sweet the old sounds were when they came flooding up from beneath me that handful of years ago. The new phases are fine. They’re beautiful in their own ways, and obviously, necessary. It’s just startling how these tectonic plates shift under your feet when you’re busy doing all the other stuff.
Listen to the sounds coming from your basement. Your backyard. Your bath tubs. There’s a bittersweet echo if you can trap it and find a special place for it in your memory.
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