The Glass Box

“Mom! Mom! MOM!” Sometimes it feels like that word is the most used one in my house — maybe even the loudest one in the world.

If you’re a parent, you know exactly what I mean. It’s that constant chorus of “I need you,” “Can you help me?” “Watch this!” And it’s a double-edged sword, isn’t it? On one hand, it’s fulfilling — being needed, being the one they come to, knowing we’re the safe place. It fills the same part of us that always dreamed of being a parent. But then there are the moments when you’d give anything for five quiet minutes — just to finish your shower or drink your coffee while it’s still hot — and yet, somehow, the kids completely bypass your spouse to find you for something like…a string cheese.

Before my mom passed away, I was always aware of how lucky I was to have two children who still wanted to share every little moment with me and my husband — their accomplishments, their frustrations, their stories. I hoped, and still do, that it’s something they’ll always feel they can do long after they’ve grown up. I’ve always been that way with my own parents. When something good or bad happens, they’re the first people I want to tell. And my kids? They watched that and started doing the same — wanting to call my parents to share their own little victories.

But about a month before my mom passed, I started noticing something different. Subtle things. She was slower to reply to texts, sometimes didn’t answer my calls right away, or wouldn’t mention what she had planned for the evening — little things that were so unlike her. At the time, I brushed it off. She had her own life, after all. But after she was gone, those moments came back to me — and I couldn’t shake the feeling that, in her own quiet way, she was preparing me. Not consciously, maybe, but almost easing me into what it would feel like to reach out and not always get an immediate response.

Now, that’s how it feels sometimes — like she’s still here, just on the other side of something I can’t quite touch. I talk to her all the time, and I know she’s around, but sometimes I have to wait for her to “answer” — in a sign, in a feeling, in the way the light hits the water.

Recently, I had a massage with a woman who’s deeply intuitive. During that time, there were many things that came through — details and memories she couldn’t have possibly known — but one image that will not soon leave me is what she described next: my mom in what looked like a glass box. My mom was pounding on the walls, smiling, trying to get our attention, saying she’s still right here — just in a different way. That image has stayed with me.

Because maybe motherhood is a bit like that glass box, too. We’re here — watching, loving, guiding — but slowly, we start to let our children figure things out without us always stepping in. Lately, when Clara or Henry call out “Mom, I need you!” I pause before rushing in. I ask, “What do you need help with?” and try to guide them to find their own answers. It’s not about pushing them away — it’s about teaching them to listen to themselves, to trust their instincts.

And when they call, “Mom, watch this!” — I stop what I’m doing and watch. Because I know what it feels like to want to show your mom something and not be able to. I don’t ever want to miss those moments while I can still be in them.

So maybe the lesson is this: whether we’re the ones calling out “Mom!” or the ones listening for it from somewhere unseen, love doesn’t disappear. It just shifts. Sometimes we’re the voice, sometimes we’re the echo, and sometimes we’re the one gently tapping on the glass, reminding the people we love — I’m still here.