It is the time of year when I look at my children and marvel.
There will be birthdays, two. There will be cakes, two. There will quite possibly be pangs of the heart, many.
For my babies will turn seven and three this fall, and though two small lives are more than I ever thought I would create, it twists a bit in my stomach to know that they are both moving through these young months and years so quickly.
Time is a terrible, wonderful thing. I am so addicted to their changes, to seeing newness light in their eyes, to their endlessly clever ways. Yet, I miss the sweetness of the babies they once were. My arms were full of sweet cheeks, soft blankets and pink toes many moons ago; now strong, brave, noisy children have taken their place.
Their voices mingle and mash, their energy swirls through the house. Most days they take me along with them – for isn’t it easier to let the wave take you than fight the current once you have fallen in?
We spend years looking inward before we become parents, then as soon as we lay eyes on that newborn face it’s as though we suddenly see so clearly how much of our lives we will give so freely.
Looking down at one’s own path, looking inward, looking behind are pale stand-ins for looking forward, standing first before, then behind a child of your own. Their horizons reach further than your own and you realize the ocean you are sailing suddenly has no shore. You become them, they become their own and so on and so forth and if you are lucky, so it continues.
These wee creatures are already eyeing their own ships – who knew it would come so soon? But I can see the twinkle and the future in their eyes.
An arm around one, the other snuggled on my lap.
We rock in calm seas, and I am overwhelmed at my good fortune.
Photo credit: stock.xchg