The April of her Prime

Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother,
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime:
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.

Although the Shakespearean scholars call this one of the "fair lord sonnets", presumably addressed to a man, I feel a bond with this sonnet as a woman and as a mother. In particular, these lines (hence the name of this blog):

"Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime"

First, I love spring and any reference to the season. I love the renewal and growth and vitality of the season. I love the metaphor of the seasons being stages of life. Second, the lines appeal to my sense of awe at my own child, as she is a part of me and reflects part of me. It is absolutely awe-inspiring to see a glimmer of yourself in another human. Third, as she views the world in her childhood perspective, I am often blindsided by memories of my own childhood experiences. Things long ago forgotten come rushing back; fears and insecurities, wonder and amazement, laughter and tears vividly play before my eyes as my daughter experiences similar circumstances. Fourth, as comes with age, I realize how like my mother (and father) I am. I see things differently as I approach thirty very rapidly than I did in my teens or twenties. I know which qualities are from which parent and see where I want to improve myself and how my parents' choices have affected me. Lastly, as I mentioned, I'm almost thirty. The last few years I've started to feel older. I'm not decrepit or in ill health, but I do suffer more aches and pains than I did at twenty-one. I guess it's a bit of my own mortality creeping up on me, a time for contemplation. Oh, and I miss writing. I miss seeing my thoughts in actual words.

I had wanted to write a journal for my daughter from the moment she was born, but the hectic and tiring first few months went by before I had a chance to start one. Then after only a week or so of writing, I gave up. A handwritten journal is nice and I would love for her to have this in my own handwriting, but I am so used to composing my writing on a computer that it's hard to compose my thoughts before they go on paper. I want my writing to look pretty and my thoughts to flow evenly and they don't do they on paper. I love the backspace key and cut-and-paste too much sometimes.

I want something lasting, something insightful, something more. I often think about my relationship with my mom and how, while as wonderful as it was then and is now, it was just lacking something. I'm the youngest of three and the only girl. That plays a factor in my thoughts as well. I just want something my daughter can read someday and have some understanding of who I am beyond "mom". Most of this will be phrased as letters to her, although I do believe I will deviate from time to time.