Those first few months, I was in heaven. A new reservoir in my heart opened that I didn't know existed before having a child. I was so proud of my new role. For the years prior to holding my own baby, I'd witnessed that club of mothers, a club I was desperate to be in. Though my husband and I went through some infertility issues, pregnancy illness, miscarriage and even some postpartum depression, we persevered together as a family. Three of us became four, when we welcomed our son into the mix.
"Living the dream" is an overused mantra, and even though my friend has this tattooed on his arm, it seems more like a commercial tag line than fitting for real life. However, I have moments where no other words seem to work as well. My days are so full lately. I'm dizzy trying to keep track of the balls I am juggling, but I had more than a moment this weekend where my feelings were full. I felt almost intoxicated with how happy I am to be in the life I have. Packing lunches, wiping bums, or doing fifth grade math with a frustrated ten year old were not what I was daydreaming about in my apartment years ago, but still I couldn't have imagined how much my children would mean to me. I get so busy driving them to activities, or remembering teacher breakfasts, that sometimes I need to stop and realize what my life has become and how meaningful it is. I am reminded each time I walk with my children holding each of my hands on either side of me, just how grateful I am. I am not sure how people do it with more than two kids, but having my hands literally full with their palms against mine gives me the most joyful wave of love.