I Sit…

I sit. 

Rocking. Swishing. Side to side. In the chair. The chair that, at the time, was definitely a splurge. That I’m guessing went on a credit card. That we probably spent the first year of the first’s life, paying for. The chair that I had to have. The one that would create the picture perfect nursery. For the picture perfect mother. Of the picture perfect family.

I sit. 

I think… about sitting in this same chair five years ago. And not knowing. And though expecting… not knowing I didn’t know at all what to expect. 

Rocking in the chair, I feel the one who is currently with me for every inhale and exhale, burrowing around, trying to get comfortable and in that, I realize how comfortable I’ve grown with this whole thing. With motherhood as part of me. Right now, in this stage, as most of me, I suppose. 

I sit.

I rock. I rest as I’ve been given instruction to do. And I think. About the mother I’ve become since I first sat here. And how I still don’t think everyone should have kids. Because not everyone wants to. And that’s beyond okay. But how having kids has brought me here and how thankful I am that we do, have them. And I hope that it continues to change me. Because I like the person I’ve become. And I’m comfortable with her. She’s nicer. Softer. Less self-important. Yet still spunky. And still full of opinions. But far more genuine. And far more grateful. Not than anyone else. Just than her former self. 

I think as I sit here about how this is the chair that I may soon equate with some of the darkest, loneliest hours. Where I might be full of fog and emotion. I think about the year to come. Perhaps a year of breastfeeding. Perhaps formula. Perhaps a baby who is very content. Perhaps a babe who screams so much it drives me to want to drink. Perhaps a baby boy. Perhaps a girl. Perhaps something we have yet to experience. Likely, I think. Pretty likely. 

I think about three. Eagads, I think. Three. I think about the brothers’ Brehm. And about their connection. And about him and me. And our connection. And glaringly noticeable is the silence of the house during nap time. I take mental note that that will soon be an object in the rear view mirror. 

And I think about how fast it all goes. And question where the time slipped away to. Even though I have lived and felt and experienced every minute of it. I inventory briefly that I must have collected thousands of short stories from the long days of my motherhood. In just five brief times around the sun. And my chair rocks and rocks. 

I look around the room. I think to myself, we’ve done it before…we’ll do it again. Hopefully. No. We will.

And I continue to sit. To rest. With my bump in full view. And I collect my thoughts into somewhat meaningful fragments. So I can someday look back. And get inside my own mind. 

I think of how happy this all makes me. To be a mom. And a wife. And I realize in my mind how traditional that sounds to me. And how traditional it feels. And how much this all surprises me about me. And I know for that moment that tomorrow I may not be as happy. And when the kids wake, it won’t feel as serene. And when the little one arrives, I won’t feel as settled. For awhile. 

And in a realization {the now-apparent purpose for my sitting… and my rocking…} it comes into view…  It was not in the carrying of our children that I became a mother. It has been in being a mother to them that they have carried me. To a new place. Though in the same chair. In the same room. In the same house. But to a completely different life. A life with children that we surely talked about and planned for but one that has so far surpassed any prior expectations I’d had. A life and a pure happiness that I may have had without them. One that I could have lived without. Nah. I think, for me, probably not.

Do you have time to sit? To think? To replay your moments?