Little boys are amazingly fantastic.
Four months ago, I wasn’t even really sure that I wanted to have more kids. To be perfectly honest, the thought of another kid felt somewhat suffocating to me. I’d become overwhelmed when I’d picture another human being milling about the place- crying and poopin and lookin’ at me with those big googly baby eyes again.
Four months ago, with trepidation, I agreed that it was time to think about expanding our family once again- what with Ezra being well into three and displaying signs of awesome big brother-ly-ness every chance he got… kissing babies, cradling and singing to the dolls at school, and wanting nothing more than to help me with the mounds of dirty laundry that tend to pile up on the garage floor. (The boy LOVES to do laundry. I do declare!)
Ezra’s name literally means “helper”, and has a boy ever fit a given name so perfectly in the great span of all time? I think maybe not. The name fits him like a glove. His spirit is “helper”, his joy is “helper”, his DNA spells “helper” in cursive when you look at it under the lens of a microscope. He helps me more than a young boy could ever be expected to help a momma… keeping my feet on solid ground and helping me remember the little girl inside. (Who is still very much alive, come to find out. Hi there, little Emy Jo!)
Three months ago, I had an early miscarriage. And the Emery of three months ago was simultaneously devastated and (dare I say it outloud?) …somehow… slightly relieved. Deep down, I had been scared to become a mother again. The first go-round had changed me so deeply; could I do it all over again and still remain… me?
The me of three months ago was not well. I’d settled for a version of myself that had surrendered something almost a decade earlier and never gotten it back. It was like there was a layer of film between me and the world- like I had set my heart on cruise control and hoped to sail through to the end on auto pilot- not feeling too much and just sortof… skimming the surface of life. If you will.
In my state of desperation, I cried out for help and got rescued. I took steps of faith and found myself suddenly blinking at the fierce light of a film-free world. It was like my windows got a good scrubbing- 10 years of grime wiped away in what seemed like an instant.
I know I’m on a journey- that I’m not suddenly 100% healed and perfect. Heck, just yesterday I may or may not have thrown a phone at the wall in a burst of anger and shattered it all to pieces. (Yipes! Sorry bout that honey muffin.) But there’s this underlying thing that wasn’t there before… simply, hope.
There’s a word that could describe me quite well these past three months: I’ve become a big fat blubbering SOFTIE again. I cry… a lot. When I’m by myself. But now they are tears of wonder and love and just plain feeling good. I’m remembering sweet things from my childhood, how God was there even before I knew his name, and I’m feeling called to live from my youthful heart again. (Lawsie, I’m crying even now. Someone get this girl a tissue.) The old me is resurfacing. Old bones that were far too long buried.
And in the midst of all this rebirth, something surprising is gleaming forth. The mother in me. She is beaming. And dreaming! Dreaming of babies and children and expanding her tent and passing on the gift of life. Because, suddenly, life is good! And it’s worth creating and multiplying and reveling in!
Chris, Ezra, and I- we are a symphony. Yet something is missing… someone is missing… there is a chair unfilled. An instrument un-played. A melody un-sung.
I know now, more than I ever have before, that I am ready. Ready to become a mother again. Ready to embrace the life I have been given, and cradle the life that’s yet to come.
This is Keira – a friend’s daughter who has STOLEN MY HEART.
Disclaimer: Not pregnant. YET. :)