I haven’t written anything in a week. Not even five minutes worth.
I’ve felt empty of words.
Full of baby. Full of noise and chaos and worry and kids who launch themselves out of bunk beds with no heed for their physical safety or my mental well being. Full of to-do lists that wrap themselves around me, paralyze and scare me. Full of mailboxes that won’t quit and a head ache that won’t go away and the poke, poke, poking on the inside of a baby girl outgrowing my insides and forcing her way into my head.
Because my head hasn’t had room for her.
My head has been full of all those lists and worries and to-dos.
But she’s coming just the same and this week I stopped to think about it. I mean, really think. Teeny tiny baby dependent on me again-think. Tiny toes and fresh baby skin and milky breath-will be here in 4 weeks-think. Register for pre-admission and beg for the chance to take a maternity ward tour sometime *before* my due date-think.
The thinking might also have looked a bit like crying at times.
But there it is. Suddenly there’s room for her. Room in my head, which seems more important than the room that naturally blossoms in my heart. Room to think on her. Room to ponder her. Room to remember this start-from-scratch stage of motherhood.
And for her to move in, other things had to move out.
So we’re in process. Moving. Boxes of junk piled high in my head and on their way out. Slowly. Setting up more than a crib. Setting up boundaries for work and social media and my smartphone. Setting up notices to pay attention to the last of the days spent just with my boys. To savor them like so much ice cream and chocolate sauce licked clean from the bowl. To just sit on the couch and watch them dance to Shakira’s World Cup Soccer anthem for hours. On repeat. In their underoos and nothing else.
To watch Pete as he sleeps in just the exact same posture as Micah and marvel that he will soon have a daughter. To anticipate seeing him in doting newborn mode again.
To talk to friends. Not just IM them. To talk and laugh and apologize for being absent for so long.
To listen. To be quiet enough to actually hear. The gentle whisper.
It all took me quite a bit longer than five minutes this week. Thank you for understanding. And for still being here when I got back.
Share your week with me? The five minute or the “and then some” version.