I watch them. The two blonde babies. Babies to me. They will always be, I would assume. I watch them crash their cars down the ramp. They are making crashes and bashes and the ramp is toota-tooting; letting out honks and screeches through the built-in speaker.
My fairy Godmother sits in the room with me. She’s there to do. Because mama can’t do right now. Mama can’t hug in the way that mama’s want to hug; with full squeezing and holding our little loves so close to us that we truly remember what it felt like to have them on board. But mama can’t, right now. Mama can’t lift. When little arms stretch upward toward my hips, I have to say no. And someone else swoops into give you that lovin’ that you need. That your little two year old heart thinks is necessary at every moment. Just to know that I am here. And so, someone else is here. Mama can’t do all the things that mama wants right now. So mama sits. And watches.
While other people… grandma. grandma. grandpa. grandpa. fairy godmothers. aunties. and framily. All of these people do instead.
And it’s a gift I realize. Sometimes. When I remember that.
To just sit. Sipping my coffee. Watching your blonde heads bob around and realizing that the loud noises are faded into the background of the story like it’s a soundtrack. A song made up of the sounds of little boy noises — crashes, bashes, honking horns. Your everyday movements that have become the background noise to my world. This world of motherhood.
It’s this gift that I’ve gotten to sit and appreciate. Watch and be taken with. Be in and of this moment. Of that moment. Of all these moments that make up each sentence of my life. I feel like I’ve been hit over the head with the present. And that it’s begging for me to stay.
And so I do. I take in their giggles. Their wide-brimmed smiles. Their collective crash-bam-booms. The way their little hands manipulate the little cars into acting like big rigs taking over real streets. I see their chests — up and down. up and down — breaths in and out. Keeping their little bodies full of life. And I imagine the way their hearts must often so over-filled with love. Because they don’t yet know enough to think that the world is full of things unlovely.
I take in their moments so much more now. The moment that otherwise may seem benign. Normal. Unremarkable. Lacking any sort of fascinating. And I watch it and then fold it nicely into a square and tuck it away into a pocket near my heart. To keep my heart beating and full of hope for all things bright and beautiful. I get to be their mother. I get to be his wife. I get to be her goddaughter. I get to breathe air through my lungs. And I get to feel their hands in mine… a feeling of life being passed along, through generations.
I get to just sit. I get to just watch. Because I can’t do it all. But I can take it all in. And feel it. And recognize the emotion that goes into every single enchanting moment that makes it into life.
It’s a gift. Motherhood. Being a wife. Being my own person. Having this life. It’s a gift. And I am thankful for that reminder. For those reminders. Even when life is different than what I’m used to. It’s still a life so worthy of living. And loving.
And when I am over my pity party, I can remember that, once again.
I watched them. The two blonde babies. And I hoped in my heart that I would have many of these moments ahead.
And I really believe I will. I really believe, I will.