Gray sweatpants, with dark blue side stripes, and a sweater jacket alternating thick stripes of mint green, tan, white, and brown cover Ezra's brown jumper. Tiny red and orange stripes amidst the brown peer out from under the jacket, whose hood hangs loosely about my baby's face. Little toes dangle. Russell lovingly places cozy-looking Ezra into the backpack carrier. My husband is so gentle with the boys, but he is a terrible dresser! At least, I think to myself, he will be warm. And, with a quick kiss, my boys are out the door.
For a few sweet moments, I am not bouncing a baby on my lap until my arms ache, sopping up spills from the floor, piggy-backing my toddler while my bones protest, enduring the cries associated with teething and disciplining, scraping lunch off chair legs and walls, picking up dropped toys, smelling fresh spit-up on a newly changed pair of pants or shirt. And yet, in the silence, I dwell upon soft feet and hands, lavendar-smelling hair recently washed, quick smiles and wide eyes, ready laughs and made-up songs, pattable bottoms and bellies waiting for a raspberry. Even though I cherish the minute amount of time I have alone, I find myself missing the joys of parenthood and anticipating the many unsavored ones to come.
There are so many times in life when we want a little peace from what we have, only to find that we want nothing more than to have it back again. What in your life exhibits such a mutable dichotomy, friend?