Discover more from common stories
january 22, 2013:
I’ve been wishing I had the ability to freeze time lately. Take a moment and live in it for as long as I want. Soak it in. Savor it.
Life doesn’t really work like that though, so I’m left with taking mental pictures. Memorizing the room the first time we heard baby’s heartbeat, so I can close my eyes and return to exactly that place. Sinking lower in my chair the first time I feel baby kick, so I can remember exactly how it felt. Staring at myself in the mirror before our ultrasound, so I know that no detail goes unnoticed. The color of my scarf. The curl of my hair. The feeling the first time that face popped up on the screen.
I’m very aware that no other pregnancy will be like this one. This is the baby who changes things. Who teaches my heart a different kind of love. Who, like my friend Laura says, pulls my heart on the outside of my body and asks it to reside there. Who changes the very nature of who I am.
This is the baby who makes me a mom.
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The other night, I walked past the boys’ bedroom just as Jake was putting them to bed. I could hear them all singing together on the other side of the door, so I froze time for a moment and stayed to listen. Old Rugged Cross then I Love You, Lord then You are My Sunshine and then a prayer. I leaned my head against the wall and listened to all of it before Jake emerged and we continued the practiced rhythms of our evenings together. I still like to soak things in and savor the moments when I can.
I remember clearly that moment in the bathroom before my very first ultrasound. I braced my arms against the sink and stared at my face in the mirror and willed myself to remember everything. But that desire to freeze time was different than how I often feel now that the kids are here. Now, I want to stop time so I can remember the details: Sawyer’s eyelashes, the rasp of Jude’s voice, the things all four of them laugh at together during dinner . But in that bathroom before that ultrasound, I wasn’t trying to remember a specific memory. I was straddling a before and an after—standing with my feet in two places at once—and I just wanted a minute to breathe it in before everything changed.
I’ve been feeling that again lately. I spent almost two hours in the car tonight getting the girls to and from various activities. Our routines are shifting and though we’re still very much in it, I can see the end of parentinglittlekids on the horizon. I feel my feet in two places. I know what lies ahead is good and also that what we will leave behind is good. That’s my refrain when I stand still in a moment, looking both ways.
So, I sat on the ground with Jude today. We built a train track and played a matching game and I typed a bit while he built a house with Legos. It’s a much different view than that bathroom mirror, but I think the resolve is the same.
I just need a minute before everything changes.
I was just thinking how I miss your journal reflections. I’m glad you returned. This is so good. I feel this so deeply. The in between.
I so remember that feeling with my first—straddling a before and after.