Really (Truly)

It slunk through the household from little to big, and two weeks of sickness later, we're ready to move along. Sleepless nights with a croupy baby, lying cramped and curled on the tiny bathroom floor upstairs, rivulets running down walls and hair soaked from steam that rolled off the tub; a 7-hour emergency room visit a week later for that same baby, who'd swollen into a troll and who's obviously highly allergic to something; hot tea brewed by the jugful for all the children and, for some, the rare treat of honey and lemon; a walk-in visit for a girl whose sinus infection spread toward her eye...yeah, we're done. We avoid the doctor's office unless forced there (Millie cutting her toe half-off in October? We caved for that.), and our insurance doesn't cover a blessed thing until we've paid thousands in deductibles, so, really, we're done now.  Really.

One can't speak more surely than with an emphatic and italicized "Really," so it's clear that we're moving up and out of this slough.











The snow has arrived, not quite in earnest yet, but at least it covers the brown for longer stretches. I'm slogging along, or mostly trying to, and these dreary days of late January are brightened by the boys and girls who roam the house, both whose bickering and camaraderie lift me from Self.  And, then, in deep night, the little one I hold within speaks with rhythmic nudges and quicksilver thumps, in that wordless language of the yet unborn.

Motherhood is more than corralling bodies that can't be still and tidying messes that will be made again moments later, more than chopping garlic and stirring a pot and serving up portions. It's not even pinned down in reading picture books or tucking-in or training up in the way one should go. These souls that spring from such small beginnings, sparking up the dark womb, stretch and grow in body and mind with mysteries I'll never know.  In winter days that stay too long and nights that sink too fast, I sometimes catch a flash of this, and it sustains.  They are not meant to be contained, these souls.  They were created to grow and stretch and press against the womb-walls, and then, later, to grow and stretch and press against all else, until they reach the place they're meant to be.  Dirty dishes piled high, clothes to fold, books to crack, life to learn, and glimmering in it all is this great wonder.