Me Holding Things

Inspired by the author/illustrator Maira Kalman

My mom gave me a book for my birthday (a month early actually) called Women Holding Things, by Maira Kalman.

She inscribed it, “I thought of you,” and it is one of the most thoughtful gifts I’ve received. It made me feel seen. My mom knows I love books of course, but the title and the cover image of a woman staring straight ahead were so relatable without even cracking it open.

I feel like I am constantly holding many balls in the air, so I decided to write them down. Now I don't have to hold this list in my head, but there are plenty more where that came from.

Thanks Mom, for seeing me in Kalman's work and introducing her to me. 

Me Holding Things

I hold bags of books, water bottles, trucks, snacks, bandaids, swim gear, more snacks.

I hold a kid-sized backpack on my own back.

I hold laundry and carry it to and fro, endlessly.

I hold my tongue regularly. 

I hold fears for my children and fears of my children.

I hold a matcha latte and a pastry, a farmers market tote and a baguette.

I hold conflicting opinions of my body depending on the day - awe and ugh.

I hold small hands, sometimes one on each side. They are sweaty and dusty and grimy and fit perfectly in mine. 

I hold the calendar, the appointments, the schedule, everything.

I hold the phone. Too often I am holding my phone. 

I hold a library card and a stack of children's books.

I hold one open and read aloud, for me as much as for them.

I hold their hearts in my heart.

I hold it together, even, especially, when I think I can't anymore.

I hold doors from slamming on fingers.

I hold resentment and also gratitude.

I hold anger and also acceptance.

I hold broken pieces together.

I hold stamped mail and send it off.

I hold your first words in my memory, the sound of your toddler voice.

I hold those small hands in mine with both longing and mourning for the fact that they are growing bigger. 

I hold on to fragmenting friendships and budding new ones.

I feel like I cannot hold one more thing.

I hold on tight to the carefree moments, the laughs and smiles and sweetness.

I hold on to what it was like before. 

I hold on tight when the reality of this diagnosis settles in again. 

I hold an open book by the pool, savoring any time I can get. 

I am often left holding my bladder.

Holding your empty snack bags.

Holding my thoughts before I can write them down. 

Holding so much anxiety that really it’s holding me.

Holding Legos and train tracks and action figures.

Holding your arms so you can’t throw them. 

Holding every piece of your whole life.

Holding hope endlessly.