Tender, tender, tender

Meditations on softness and the delicate nature of being human

Tender
adjective,ten·der·er, ten·der·est

1. soft or delicate in substance; not hard or tough: a tender steak.

2. weak or delicate in constitution; not strong or hardy.

3. (of plants) unable to withstand freezing temperatures.

4. young or immature: children of tender age.

5. delicate, soft, or gentle: the tender touch of her hand.

6. easily moved to sympathy or compassion; kind:a tender heart.

Tender, tender, tender, my 4-year-old imitates the sound of his battery-operated train engine that rides wooden tracks around our Christmas tree. The gold engine is new, but the train tracks are old, lovingly tucked away and saved by my mother when my siblings and I outgrew them two decades ago.

I need his reminder, even if he is only copying the sound of the engine’s weak chug, misinterpreted as an unexpected meditation. My son, who is still so tender, even if I spend my days reminding him to be gentle when he gets near his baby sister, her more obvious tenderness making me forget his own. He tells me he is no longer a baby, that he isn’t even my baby anymore, even though just months ago I was assuring him he would always be. Now, he claims to be my big boy and proves it with his force as he throws the couch cushions on the floor and dives into them, when he rams his trucks into the baseboard.

These days, the train tricks him into sitting still for a moment, watching its repetitive loops around the tree. He stops it occasionally to load a truck onto a flatbed car, then restarts it and sings along with its chug-chug: tender, tender, tender. Some afternoons, the phrase follows me through the house; I listen while doing dishes or while blessedly alone in the bathroom. The small, only bathroom in our house whose door is never locked, where half the time my privacy is interrupted by a forceful turn of the knob and a sweet voice saying, mama? 

During these weeks of train meditations, the whole house falls sick, all of us knocked out for days at a time. The baby gets her first fever, and I am up through the night, breastfeeding her as she lays beside me. Tend her, tend her, tend her. 

In the morning, I scroll through the news on my phone while my son is across the room. There is a video of a mother holding the corpse of her child, a weeping father who has lost all his children. There is discourse in the comment section as to why this is justified. Meanwhile, my son is back at the train again, praying tender, tender, tender. May we be so. May we be.

The village is quiet in the dense dusk¹, and we decide to fill it with some joyful noise. One evening, we invite friends over to go caroling, pour hot cocoa into thermoses and string Christmas lights on the stroller. We knock and wait as our neighbors hesitate to open up their doors in the dark, then we erupt into familiar tunes. It is somewhat strange and awkward, staring into the eyes of the people who live on my street while singing Frosty the Snowman, but there is laughter and vulnerability, and even a little dancing.

This morning, my son woke me earlier than I wanted, and I entered the kitchen grumpy. He asked what his dad should make me for breakfast before I could sip my morning cup of coffee, and I responded with agitation: I can take care of my own breakfast. I wandered to the bathroom to find my glasses, and he followed me and asked again, what do you want for breakfast? You don’t have to take care of yourself. Daddy and I can take care of you. 

Tender.

All of this mothering business, indeed the best word I have had for it since the moment my oldest came home, is tender. Those first few weeks when we stayed nestled on the couch, a book in my hand and him constantly at my breast. Time keeps moving and I feel the mild ache heighten each year.

Of course, it isn’t just the act of mothering that produces this gentleness; the delicate nature of being alive is a constant invitation–or maybe command–to be soft, to feel. Not just our own pain and joy, but the pain and joy of others.

The battery-powered train stopped working a few days ago; it did not just run out of battery, but some hidden mechanism I do not understand caused it to stop entirely. My son tucked the engine up on the counter, told me to take it to Papa; he’ll know what to do.

Even without the chugging reminder to stay soft, I am feeling it especially this season, that feeling of being tender. As the winter solstice and holidays loom, I am doing my best to not be swept away. To allow this season to be about calling in compassion instead of ignoring the calls for it. We must remain (say it with me now)

tender.

Swim Club

I will keep this thread updated with swim club details. Tomorrow morning we will meet at 9am in Glen Haven to dip. Wear a swimsuit and booties or wool socks if you have them; bring a warm drink, a towel or two, and a warm coat or robe to slip into.

As mentioned in this essay, I am doing my best to stay aware of what is happening outside my door, what pain is being inflicted with our tax dollars. I know it feels difficult to continue talking about the genocide in Palestine, but I think this difficulty is the least we can manage. I encourage you to continue contacting your representatives to demand they call for a ceasefire. I will be calling again tomorrow. Our words have power, even when it feels like no one is listening. We must keep making noise in the dense dusk.

Tenderly,
Mae

1. I borrowed this phrase, dense dusk, from John Updike’s poem “December,” from his book “A Child’s Calendar,” which we checked out from our library this week. He writes in one stanza: The carols peal. / The dusk is dense. / There is a mood / of sweet suspense.