By Michelle (Graceful, Faith in the Everyday)
Feet padding soft, silhouette standing bedside while storm crashes. He crawls in, asleep in seconds, arm flung over head, hair frizzled flat, thighs pale-moon soft. I watch him sleep, drinking in that bit of baby still left.
He cries while we watch Free Willy, worried about the whale -- brow crinkled, tears brimming lashes, mouth agape in wailing oh.
“We forget he’s still just five,” says Brad as I shush and console, stroke sunset curls, murmuring reassurances that Willy will indeed prevail.
It seems I’ve forgotten all along, so bent was I on surviving the trials of mothering infants and toddlers. And now, on the eve of too-late, I grip tight, finally not wanting to let go.
All those elderly ladies at the grocery store, the post office, Walgreen’s, they always said the same thing as I chased tantrumming toddler, balanced squirming babe on shifting hip. “Enjoy it now,” the ladies admonished. “It goes by so quick. They’ll be grown before you know it.”
I would nod, murmur an appropriate response and smile while my mind swam with bitter retorts. “Easy for you to say, lady…how ‘bout you take this one for the afternoon.” Back then there were hours, whole days in fact, when I couldn’t get those babies to grow up quickly enough.
Part of me knew they were right, of course, those ladies I met halfway down the pasta aisle, in the snaking line for postage stamps. It did go by so fast. Those chubby legs grew lean and strong. Round faces etched cheekbones, lost multiple chins.
They still need me, these boys. But they need me less. And less.
During our visit to Massachusetts I gladly carried my nephew. Picked him up, shifted him onto left hip, cleaned kitchen counters one-handed. It’s been awhile since I’ve carried one of my boys. Noah I simply can’t – too tall, too lanky, too grown-up. And Rowan, he’ll have none of that, preferring to skip ahead as we walk or lag grumpily behind like a peevish pre-teen.
When they used to want to be carried, sometimes I resisted. “Carry wound, carry wound,” Noah insisted, arms outstretched, when he was two or three. “Just a minute, hold on a sec…” I’d reply, squeezing in one more sponge sweep across counter, one more dish on rack before picking up my child.
I hold them a little bit tighter now. Welcome the little one into my bed more eagerly, too, as lightning flashes and trees toss. I know this time won’t last. The elderly ladies were right. They knew. The time is gone before we know it.
Michelle is a Christian wife and mother of two originally from Massachusetts now living in Nebraska. She is a part-time writer, editor and fundraiser for Nebraska PBS/NPR. Michelle loves to write about how her family illuminates God's presence in her everyday life, and on finding (and keeping) faith in the everyday. Michelle enjoys reading, running and writing. Be sure to go visit her blog, Graceful, Faith in the Everyday.