I'm reading this beautiful post and crying.
"I thought there’d always be sand and Tonkas and footed pajamas, and always a place at the table and their shoes at the back door. I thought there’d always be stacks of picture books and read alouds and legos everywhere. I thought we’d defy time, that they’d grow up and stay little, that we’d have our cake and eat it too and we’d have it all. A head can think otherwise but somehow a heart can feel wiser"
When Shira was born, I - unconsciously, of course - thought of her as a first out of a dozen. She was unique and special and wonderful, of course, but I was gearing up for 20 years or so of pregnancy, nausea, fatigue, breastfeeding, diapers, sleepless nights, spit-ups, and everything else that comes with babyhood.
It didn't happen yet, it was only in the vague future, but I was already tired, so tired, just from thinking that it might be. That was preventing me from truly enjoying my baby.
20 months later our second daughter was born, and I said to myself, "There, see. It's going to be like that for decades. A baby every 18-20 months."
Now Tehilla is 2.5 years, and I still only have my two girls, and for various reasons it might be that I can never have another. I am at peace, because I know Who is in charge.
And I'm going around the neighbourhood and giving away baby things, and smile through my tears when I see other women's babies wearing them, and I cook meals for mothers who have recently given birth, and we sold the crib and stroller and the shoes are getting gradually but irrevocably bigger. And the girls are still very little and my hands are full, and I am happy with all that had been, and all that is, and all that might be, but here I stop.
I savor the moment. The day. The time. It will never come again. And you know what? Even if I had a dozen children, it would not change a thing about the particular moment with a particular child, for every life is unique.
Do not lose the present worrying about/planning for the future, for the future, really, doesn't exist. We can prepare for it, but we cannot live in it. We can only live in the here and now, seizing the moment, seizing the day.
And so I'm reading and crying, and reminding myself that it's OK to cry.
It's OK to be unable to say one more thing, for sometimes words aren't needed.