It’s 2:53am.
My child is sleeping.
My husband is snoring.
My home is hushed with the sacred silence of the night.
But here I sit.
It’s 2:54am.
I don’t really know what to write. I don’t really have anything specific to say.
But my mind is restless, racing. My mind won’t sit still for any length of time long enough to allow me to enter into peaceful slumber.
Even my MacBook is showing red, barely hanging on with only 10% of its battery life left.
Maybe you’re a mama like me who can put everyone to sleep but herself. Your usual warm cup of tea or decaf coffee before bed isn’t doing its job like it normally does.
So here you sit, alone.
At 2:55am.
I try to think over my day, wondering if perhaps I am searching for closure. All the things I’ve accomplished come to mind…the numerous loads of laundry, the dishes, vacuuming, dusting, sheet changing, diaper changing, tidying, cooking…
Then my Little One’s face appears in my mind, and I recall holding her this afternoon when she fell asleep in my arms instead of setting her down so I could clean some more. We have company coming tomorrow, but I can’t imagine trading those moments for anything…
Her little head nestled in the crook of my arm…
Her little eyes closed to the world around her and open to the dreamscape of her mind…
Her little hands holding onto my breast so tenderly, yet so desperately as if to say, “Not this time, Mama. Don’t let go. Hold me, Mama. Just this time, I don’t want to leave your arms.”
I’ve held her through her naps hundreds of times before, but this time was so very different somehow.
And so I held her. And I kissed her. On her forehead and her cheeks and her nose. My Little One. My growing child. I celebrate her growth and grieve it all at once.
I can’t seem to hold on to her tight enough or long enough. I want to make the time stand still. I want to soak in every moment and cherish it and carry this memory of her…of us…with me until my final breath.
And once again I feel the familiar warmth of tears welling up, surprising me now at 3:09am just as they did at 3:09pm earlier today.
They never warn you about the tears you cry as a mama. They’re different from any tears you’ve ever cried before.
They aren’t sad tears.
They aren’t happy tears.
They’re almost nostalgic.
They spring from a fount of deep longing for the things of the long past and the past only moments ago and the present that will be past sooner than I think and for the future that will be present and then past quicker than I could ever dream or want.
And yet, I already miss it all. The past, present, and future. Now tell me, how is that fair?
But perhaps this is what they mean when they tell us to “live in the moment”. I suppose to truly appreciate life as it’s happening and not take anything for granted requires some amount of grief in the process.
Perhaps that is why I can’t sleep. Perhaps my mind and my heart are still appreciating. And so, perhaps they are still grieving.
My life. My child. My husband. Our home. Our Us.
Oh, how I love our little life. And how I already miss it so dearly.
If I died tomorrow, at least I know I did not take any of our yesterdays, todays, or tomorrows for granted because today, I loved and grieved them all.
A Hint of Home 