The Light at the End of this Tunnel That I Love.

The Light at the End of This Tunnel That I Love

I can see it now. Sometimes it’s dull (like when they pitter patter at 3am, and I stumble out bleary eyed to tuck them in again), and other times it flashes just so (like when she teases me with her 2yo giggle at her brother’s ball game, arms wrapped around my neck, “Mommy, I need you,” then gallops away to play with friends), signaling a reminder. A reminder that there isn’t a baby in our house for the first time in 13 years.

It’s not certain, because we Never Say Never around here, but gosh. Thirteen years.

The tunnel that I love is giving way to light: sleepless midnight hours, poop-throughs, day and night-long unmedicated back labors, spit ups, eleventy-billion hours of nursing round the clock, the resulting and perpetual ache between my shoulders, poop in my bed and on my shirt and on the inside of my elbow (how on earth?!) Everything times six.

The tunnel that I love is transitioning: fuzzy baby heads, gummy grins, footie jammies, natural birth euphoria (yes, really! but we’re “never doing that again!”), milk coma, post-bath giggles, chubby hands exploring my face, quiet nursing rooms where we both can escape the chaos. Everything times six.

It was dark in there sometimes. Quiet, with only the cacophony chorus of family to keep me company. And other times that chorus filled my soul so fully that days would go by before I counted back to see when was it again that I last left the house. The tunnel of newborns and toddlers on repeat was cozy and rarely confining, but as the big kids got older and the babies kept coming, there were a few miles that I strained for a glimmer. It won’t be forever, right?

It’s not.

The light is coming now. “The sun always comes up, right mom?” when I kiss her goodnight. It sure does.

bonusThe Bonus Sisters, in all their glory.

Our 5th is in afternoon preschool starting yesterday, making her sister a reluctant only child for 3 1/2 hours 4 days a week.

It is both liberating and daunting, approached with joyful caution, the light at the end of this tunnel that I love.

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Comments

  1. Sounds just like motherhood.

    Hard to believe you’re at this stage. Makes me achy with you. The bitter-sweetness of motherhood–loving the stage you’re in, longing for the good things in the next stage, missing the good things in the stage just past, knowing the stage you’re in is so fleeting.

    I do believe Number 6 is a bit of a rerun of Second Girl.

    So good to read your posts again, Amy!

    • You nailed it! I worked so hard and really DID love the baby stage. What is ULTRA hard is giving 2 and 3 different stages all the love and attention and ALL OF ME all at the same time. Oy!

      #6. She’s a corker. And you are the third person to tell me that with that photo!

  2. Are you even kidding me?! ! ! I just realized you’re writing again and I actually might tear up a little bit. I LOVE reading your words and of course, seeing your people. Happy, happy, happy day!

    • I’ve been having conversations with you in my head as I read your posts lately. Is that as good as commenting? 😛 Miss you!

  3. JessieLeigh says:

    This made my heart sigh a little. Beautiful words, my friend.

  4. Cheryl Vetter says:

    Part of what has always drawn me to your blog is how well your words often fit what I am feeling. My girls are a little older than your oldest. I have a senior this year!?! ( how can it be?) Many of the feelings you mentioned above are what I am feeling – loving this stage, missing when she and her sister were little, excited and a little nervous (okay a lot) for the next steps, knowing some will be harder than others. Thanks for sharing your journey with us.

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