I’m older. My son thinks it’s incomprehensible that I’m 38.

He likes to ask me over and over again and then shake his head in awe; mutter under his breath, “I thought you were only 37. Wow, 38!!” But I find I fit into this woman’s skin better than I did a year ago; so much better than a decade ago. I am becoming the surest version of myself. I feel it in my heart. Sometimes I feel it in my tired feet too. But those simply tell me I’ve been busy. Busy with children and their wrangling and wrestling and carrying and tending and it is a soulful kind of busy.

I am not afraid anymore of who I will grow up to be. Dressed up on Sunday mornings or wound down on Friday nights.

I feel the wrinkles climbing happy around and about my eyes, my cheeks, testimony to laughter and life. I feel so full of the wonder of being alive. Even on the days I am tired or frustrated or desperate for an hour to myself. I am aware that the God who made me finds me useful and this is a miracle to me.

I feel Him at my shoulder when I’m leaning over Zoe’s crib watching her sleep. I can’t help but lay a hand on her back – feel the gentle rise and fall of life. Because I know He knows this is the good stuff. These are the moments like treasure hidden for us to stub our toes on, since we’re not expecting it.

Boys who bury their heads in my chest and stifle me with their hugs. A baby girl who just turned two.  A man who wants to dash out at 9pm after taking the long commute home to go and buy cake.

This is older. This is better. This is good.

And I know I’ve made my peace with this time and place when I put on my jeans and care more about their comfort than their size. Those jeans have been on a journey with me and seen the rise and fall of hips and belly as I carried three babies. Men don’t have closets full of clothes in such a unique array of sizes I don’t think. But they haven’t worn their children on the inside either.

Once upon a time I bought a pair of jeans in Prague and they were gorgeous. It was the year before I became a mother for the first time. I bought them in a store that was just a stone’s throw from the Charles Bridge and they fit in ways that made us feel like newly weds on honeymoon all over again. But better; five years into marriage and so much better than when we were still fumbling our way forward that first year.

Those jeans could tell stories of late nights in expat restaurants ordering onion rings in a country where the phrase is foreign. Of an afternoon watching Cats, an evening at the opera when I ditched them for dress up, a long walk along the sky line. Those jeans. Those jeans could tell stories on me. And more and more they tell the story of what it means to say good bye to that size and that version of myself. Not because there’s a perfect size. There’s just an irreversible change in the set of the hips, the heart, the fit post-babies and that’s OK.

But some days it’s also something to be missed.

Most mornings now there are kids clamoring for breakfast and my eyes are blurry without contacts as I dig into my closet for comfort and bring out a pair of dark blue denim that is a friendly fit. And my daughter walks over and rubs a booger against one leg. A boy wants cake for breakfast. And I’m more likely wearing my converse sneakers than my heels.

But my waist can tell stories now bigger and grander than the view from the Charles Bridge in Prague.

I am a life maker, grower of tiny humans, raiser of sons and daughter. I fit into my self better than I ever fit into my Prague jeans. I fit into this house and this family and this story we’re living of tired parents who glory in the quiet beauty of waking up beside boys who have pretzeled themselves in between us under cover of dreams.

My waist made this moment possible.



This moment. This moment, fits me like a glove.