It was one of those nights when you ache to feel that familiar weight of your child in your arms. A night when the worn out saying of, “they grow up to fast,” is more of a reality than just a far-off thought. You know, on a night when that really is just around the bend. My oldest had her first loose tooth and my middle child just turned four. It felt as if my husband and our three babies just packed the car for our big adventure, starting at over 18,000kms—with each passing day the kilometers just kept ticking down, and there was nothing we could do to stop them.
As the anxiety and ache swelled within me, I found my feet guiding me toward my son’s bedroom. It was his pregnancy that I dreaded and cried out to God, “Why?” It wasn’t that I did not want a third child but rather I felt like I was not ready, not just yet. I had just started finding myself again: the woman who loved fitness, adventures, home cooked meals and baking. I felt as if I was starting to resemble the person I was before becoming a wife and a mother. I love being a wife and a mother, but they are not all that I am; there is a whole other person hiding underneath, waiting to push through the dirt and find the sunlight and begin to bloom to her full splendor.
For the first few months I was desperate to miscarry, my imagination came up with schemes to deal with it myself. That is how dark my thoughts were in my despair. I know that this sounds horrifying, but that was my reality. In my mind, I was just about to pop out of the dirt so I could unfold my petals; now someone had put another layer of mud over top of me. It took me a few months to come to terms with the idea of a third baby so close to our second. And when he was born, I knew, this was never my plan but exactly what I needed.
He was precisely what my roots needed to run deep as a mom and a woman: a son.
I opened his door and leaned over his crib allowing myself to burn the image of his toddler body sprawled out where he was once an infant bundled in his sleep sack. “You were meant for me,” I whispered. My arms reached down and scooped him up and I sat and rocked him in our rocking chair while praying over his life. The same chair where I have rocked and prayed over all my babies.
He is my baby, my youngest, my boy. He always will be. It is hard to put into words the bond that we share now. All I know is the day is coming where there will be no more, “snuggle with me, Mom” or “I want to sit with you, Mom.” Instead, I will be fixing his tie as he waits for his wedding to begin and his bride to walk toward him. It will then be she who is responsible for his care. Because isn’t that what a mother’s love truly is, letting go? But until then I am going to blast the music and enjoy the adventure that we are on, not missing a kilometer that passes by.
Shannon: Adventurer. Wife. Mommy. Photographer. Writer. She wears her heart on her sleeve and loves Earnest Hemingway quotes: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Find her on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and at her blog, Adventurous Mama.
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