An Overdue Farewell

It's strange to be on here after so many months of not.  I never intended to drop off the face of the earth in September but I found myself questioning how I was spending my time every time I thought about writing another post - even if it was a farewell post.  

I really liked blogging.  It was fun.  A lot of fun.  Something I could find myself easily becoming consumed with.  But every day I was reminded that I need to be consumed with something else.  Two something elses, actually.

There are moms that can do both.  And maybe one day I will grow into that mom.  But, if I'm honest with myself,  I'm not that mom right now and I can't do both.  

There are so many things I want to remember.  Sweaty heads against my chest.  Eyes that roll into the back of his head because he’s just that tired.  Snuggling into my chest, the ultimate comfort place.  Her tiny butt sitting on my feet at the bottom of the shower.  Little hands that reach up trusting you’ll steady their balance.  Legs hugging tight to your waist because they don’t want to be put down yet.  Skipped letters in the ABC’s.  Abi squeezing her eyes shut for a split second, convinced she’s winking back at me.  Sleepy lips pretending to suck the pacifier that fell out ten minutes ago.  Chunkly little legs that sit “indian style” even though his legs aren’t long enough to cross any higher than at his ankles.  Abi’s determined rush to take her shoes and socks off anywhere we are.  Her “IIIIII DID IT!” cry of accomplishment.  The saggy diaper knocking between two knees that are running as far away from the changing pad as possible (thank God for absorbant cores).  Her little voice singing and her little body dancing to the Arthur theme song.  Andrew squealing with joy as Abi pushes him in the jumper.  How he waits in anticipation for her to come around the corner when she hides from him.

I walk slowly down the hall in the evenings with Abilene as I carry her from the rocking chair to our room.  I can see the shape of her little body sleeping on my chest in the bathroom mirror as I move closer to our room.  Every night I try to etch that picture into my head because one day she’ll be too big to carry down the hall.

Sure, I want a better night’s sleep most nights but that comes with a cost.  To get more sleep, I’d lose the opportunity to smell my sweet son all night long.  To feel his soft, squishy little body next to mine.  For me, that time has already passed with Abilene.  I had to move on to taking care of Andrew.  It won’t be long before the time will be gone with Andrew too.  Yes, sometimes in the moment, I just want a bed to myself but, to be honest, for the short time at the beginning of the night that Andrew and Abi are in their respective crib and bed, it feels like something – someone – is missing. 

Sometimes I lay down with Abi in the middle of the day on the couch in the living room.  She sticks two fingers in her mouth and wraps her opposite hand around my neck.  And we look at each other in silence, our faces two inches away.  Sometimes I smile.  Sometimes we wink at each other.  Sometimes I whisper how much I love her.  And sometimes we just stare.  And it’s absolute heaven.  I hope to have the same privilege with Andrew.

Why do I selfishly cling to so many moments in the day thinking they are my moments?  I can give more value to dirty dishes and unwashed laundry than I do my own children.  I know that every time I give up my desire to sweep the kitchen for Abi’s desire to dance to ‘Move It,’ she absolutely lights up.  Every.  Time.  So why do I still choose to sweep?  Abilene please forgive me.

I know these days will pass and pass quickly.  I know because so many different people have told me.  And you don’t receive the same advice from that many different people unless it’s true.  “Cherish these times because they grow up fast.” 

I’m only 2 years and 22 days into motherhood and the time has already gone by fast.  I know that one day soon the drawers that hold bibs and the cabinets that hold sippy cups won’t hold those things any more.  One day the frog hooded towels will all turn into adult sized towels in the bathroom.  The 6 pairs of little shoes that I can gather in one arm will turn into high heels and dirty cleats.  We won’t have separate forks, mini spoons or chairs to boost little bodies to an adult sized height.  I won’t have to zip up tiny jackets or feed legs through pants.  The books that were read over and over and over and over will soon gather dust in a box in the attic.  Life will have moved on.

I’m certainly not the first mom to pen these words.  Every mom knows them whether she’s written them down or not.  They tug at her heart, excited for each new phase but sad to see the old ones pass.  I think moms were the ones to invent “happy tears.” 

I know it was kind of a ramble but that - all that up there, above this sentence - is why I can't do both.  At least for the time being.  I'm sorry it took me seven months to say that.  I just didn't want to miss what was happening in front of me while my back was turned to say goodbye.  And maybe it's not "goodbye."  Maybe it's, "See you later."