When we finally get them all to bed, his phone rings.
A sick kid, one who lives close by.
So he slips on his shoes and heads out the door.
(House calls in 2012.
I don’t imagine that happens often.
And it makes my heart swell with pride.)

The wind blows the raindrops onto my bedroom window.
I should go edit those pictures, I think.
But instead I slip on my pjs and brush my teeth.

I flinch just a bit when I hear the garage door start to open.
(I am so easily startled when he isn’t here.)

“Kid looks pretty sick.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.  May have to admit him.”
And he’s out the door again.

I’ll just lie down and read until he gets back, I tell myself.
After one paragraph, the words begin dancing on the page and I realize that my eyes are crossing.
It’s 8:30.

*****

I hear him shuffling around in the other room and glance at the clock.
It’s well after midnight and he hasn’t been home long.
He realizes I’m awake and we lie in bed and chat in the dark.

This is what intimacy really is.
These moments when you aren’t even touching but you are closer than ever.

The chatter dies off and his breathing becomes slow and steady.

I knew it would happen like this.
I knew if I fell asleep that early, I’d wake up and be wide awake.

It’s even quieter at 3am than it is at midnight.
Or at least it seems that way, save the wind chimes.

I take advantage of the silence and let my mind roam freely.
And I write words that have been aching to come out – most of which will never be read by any other eyes.
And I edit pictures that have been sitting and waiting – most of which will never be printed out to enjoy.

I wish I had more time and resources to devote to both of them.
But part of my heart breaks when I realize that one day I’ll have plenty of time but no subjects.

Babies don’t keep.
It rattles around in my head again.
And I think of Katie Granju’s words, her story (and his).
And I am grateful for this day.
And these children.
And I am certain that today I
“made sure that our children
were protected
and educated
and loved as fiercely as we know how to love them.”

For a second time, my day winds down.
And I close my eyes and whisper big prayers with little words.
Amen and amen.

I knew that It was coming and I knew that this time…this time?
I was gonna fight.
And I was gonna fight harder than ever.
And I was gonna win, dammit.

And so I looked at the things around me.
—
Things I wanted and didn’t have.
Things I had and didn’t want.
—
And I realized that there were times – many times – when I was merely treading water.
And I was doing things that I hated and I was trying to make them perfect and it just wasn’t working.
And I looked at my children and remembered my dream, the dream that changed it all…
And the enormity of time crashed down on me.

Many times, I’d heard “babies don’t keep”
And I’m quite certain I muttered it myself a time or two.
But all of a sudden, the words spun around me as time rushed past me so quickly that I fell down.
I stumbled and struggled to get up and I looked around me.
And my baby, my sweet first-born baby, looked back at me.
He is seven. S-E-V-E-N.
No, no…babies don’t keep.
But I will keep them.
I will soak up the moments with them.
And, for them, I will say yes*.
And, for them, I will say no.
And though it may be selfish, I am also saying yes and no for me.
I want them to remember this.
I want to remember this.
And in order to remember it, we have to actually do it.
And so we stay up past bedtime and break our own rules,
we read scripture and say prayers,
learn to ride bikes and celebrate milestones.

And I sort through my To Do’s and To Dont’s
and I write – for them, for me
And I hold my baby in my arms and drink her in.

Babies won’t keep.
No, no…they really won’t.
The chores will always be there tomorrow.

It wasn’t like I’d walked completely out of the building and down the street.
But I did excuse myself and slip off to the restroom to stare at myself in the mirror.
For longer than I should have, longer than was reasonable.

Rounding the corner, my eyes scanned the room…
Expecting the seat to be empty.
But it was not.
It.
was.
not.

I gently slid into my seat and looked into the face of God -
The one I knew with my heart would wait for me,
But the one I’d let my mind convince me would be gone.
Tears prickled in my eyes, but instead of obstructing my view, it seemed to make things clearer.
And more brilliant, as if the skies had burst wide open and rained stars into the room.
I was here.  And God was here.
And it was quiet.

There were no cheers or loud rejoicing as we eased back into the conversations I’d so hastily put on hold.
There was no pat on the back or ‘attagirl’s.
God knew that those scare me off.
I would blush an unflattering blush…
And feel even more self-conscious than I already did.

And it was here, in this perfect quiet moment…that I saw bits of my life all at once.
Here I was, my 32-year-old self, but I was lying in my grandmother’s lap
with her gnarled, rheumatic fingers dancing on my skin.
I was nine, but I found myself sitting on the edge of my bed in my college apartment, quickly typing messages to a new love.
And I was 25, and though – in this chronos time of mine, of ours – I should have been cradling a newborn,
I was sitting in my chair, reading a book and glancing at my own now-gnarled and rheumatic fingers.
I notice a strand of stray hair fallen into my eye.
It was no longer shiny auburn, but shimmering silver in the sunlight.

For a moment, for this one moment, I had a glimpse of this kairos time that is beyond my comprehension,
This God-time that I can’t even begin to grasp.
It was here, suspended in this God-moment, that the words
“And it was good”
flipped from words on a page to writing on my heart.

As quickly as the moment began, the dream ended.
The bubble burst.
And I was just plain old me again.
Except I wasn’t.
I was changed.
And it was good.

**Linking up with Heather‘s Just Write.
There are so many beautiful words there.
Take time to click and read.