Turning Pages

I haven't made much time for writing lately.

It's a new reality that I am simultaneously hating and embracing. Hating, because I am always thinking, musing, lining up words and ideas, wanting desperately to pen them down, keep them fast and that is just not happening. But I am also embracing this new way because I am really here, in this moment and that last one and that other one last week where I gazed upon orange colored skies wrapped in a wide open rainbow. Yeah, that one.

But I had to stop today and remember a few things. Because some things you just don't ever want to forget.

I am growing a life inside of me for the third time but the hugeness of that still catches me by surprise some days. Such as the tiredness that encroaches upon every square inch of skin and bone and muscle and demands that I stop.right.now and rest. And so I do. I stop and stretch out upon my bed and I let myself sink into cushion and blanket and holy rest. And that baby hidden deep? He tickles me from the inside, thanking me for that little bit of extra room that lying on my side provides him. It is then that I realize that I am so very human and what is happening inside of me is so very God and I can't help but smile at the absurdity of it all.

Then there are the moments when I realize that conversations with my two boys have started to include subjects and topics that stretch beyond Legos and Iron Man and Hank the Cowdog. They are asking bigger questions now, questions about relationships and current events and sex. And every time we close out those talks, its as if I'm turning pages of their childhood at a faster pace and I can see how the paper is curling and yellowing, as if we are coming dangerously close to the end of a chapter.

Surprisingly, I realize that I am okay with that. I'm excited for new chapters and story lines and plot twists.

But then the aforementioned tiredness will, again, wash over me and I am reminded of the return to babyhood that is imminent. And I sigh. Will I remember how to do all of this? When I slow to the pace that mothering an infant requires, will I end up sputtering to a tragic end, like my old Nissan? How will I manage to stay connected to the boys that are growing taller by the day and reaching further into the future than I can see when I am totally consumed with free flowing breastmilk and piles of laundry? What does bridging that huge gap even look like?

And then there will be a moment. The ones I have by the handful now.

Yesterday, as I sat in my chair, the baby deep within was alive and kicking and I called Aidan over to place his hand on my belly. I've tried this before but we always managed to miss the opportunity. But we tried again.

And there was a kick. I quickly looked at Aidan and he jumped in place and hollered that "HE HAD FELT IT!" and his smile--his smile that would soften the hardest heart--it shone glory and his eyes danced with pure joy. And in that moment, we were all connected and alive and in love.

It was then that I realized that there is no gap too wide that love can't bridge and that, sometimes, what brings the world to its softest place, the place where heart fires are kindled and hope is born, most often, is a baby.

Linking today with Emily at Imperfect Prose.