Real Time

So, after my last post, a smattering of concern came my direction. Apparently, two melancholy entries in a row are a dangerous symptom of depression, speedily addressed by those I call true friends. In response, I am here to admit that not all my posts are uploaded in 'real time.'

As my world is run by those of ages under 5, there is often a significant lag between prose and post. I find that often my inspirations are shelved in a shed at the back of my mind until such time as I have a moment to bring them out and put them in print. Similarly, sticky notes and assorted slices of serviettes have often been the receptacle of my musings until finally I gather them together to transpose onto something much less likely to be lost.

The circular file sees a lot of my stuff, I fear. By the time I have the opportunity to sit and study something, I decide it isn't worth the effort required to polish it up. Still, when recently reminded of my literary daring (did I really confess to writing a book???), I thought I'd best post something. I chose poorly... Not only a rough work which I didn't take the time to refine, but also something written months ago, in the midst of a depressing bout of difficult circumstances. It's only merit was in being written on a scrap paper rescued from a pocket prior to washing.

Still, friends, when writing a book, there must first come the rough draft. Remember English class? A book begins as bare bones of a concept only partially fleshed out, and imperfect in most any means imaginable. This is what I have begun to create...a skeleton, stripped and ugly, and truth be told, just as brittle as dry bones. I hesitate to share it, for critique may nail its coffin closed. I resist the attempt to flesh it out in the realization that the entire effort may be wasted on a work destined to remain dead. I have so few breaths of my own that aren't already claimed by some obligation, that to spend them in an attempt to breathe life into something bigger than my own refreshment will simply have to wait until I can find some honest-to-goodness real time.

How long, Lord
will the salt brine of sadness simmer within me
the steam rising up until it is trapped by the glass ceiling of my pain
and again descends
refreshing the depths of my defenselessness
drowning my hope of deliverance with despair

How long, Lord
will the taste of tears season each supper
my brokenness bubbling, boiling over and bursting upon me
blistering

How long, Lord
until this kettle of my calamity
the pot with my portion an pain
finally boils dry
Who but you, Lord
can remove my future from this fire and spare me the scorching

Of if You choose, my God
add to me grace instead of affliction, freedom from anger
and create of me a broth of Your blessing
a savory sample of how You redeem

Very Last First Times

I am simply watching his face tonight. He doesn't sleep; at least, not for more than a moment or two at a time. Perhaps its his dreams, or transient gas, but his smile wakens him as it flashes across his face. I cannot help but adore his expression, here in these quiet, dark moments in the night.

I'm tired. I, too, remain awake, although reluctantly. My energy wanes as his re-surges. He wants to play, eat, babble...while all I desire is the deliverance of sweet sleep. Most nights, my frustration level escalates along with the numbers on the clock. Dawn gathers like storm clouds on the horizonof my soul as I face another weary day.

Despite this, tonight I am content. I mimic his little laugh. I mirror his great grin. I'm not sure if it is because I know tomorrow will change things. That as I hold him skin-to-skin, our days together like this are numbered. And the number is small, ever-decreasing, winding--no, rushing--down to a zero-threshold, a moment of no return. Tonight, I have the premonition that it is the beginning of the end. That as we lie here on the couch it is one of our very last first times.

As the youngest child, I wonder if he knows. If he'll ever understand. His is my last first laugh. It is the last time I will ever be someone's first love. Our last secret moments before the day steals him away from me, and after that, the years.

I've been here before. My other baby boy is now a little man who would rather leap from my arms than burrow into them. He slept for the first six weeks right on my chest, and breathing in sync, we snuggled. Now, he is all his own. I love him, lead him, teach him, kiss his bruises and boo-boos. But long gone are the long nights of infancy.

I don't wish them back. Not really, not yet. Someday I'm sure I will. The first time they spend the night with a friend. The first birthday they're away from home. The night they marry and suddenly belong to some other woman. It seems so distant sometimes, this future I know is only a split second from being the present. But not tonight.

Tonight feels suspended between reality and regret. This chasm of sleeplessness can only be crossed by relinquishing the right to these tiny moments of terrible joy. I entertain the knowledge that as we press forward, I may be forever glancing backward, trying to remember the joy of it--my very last first time. I'm not even sure which moments to memorialize. Is it my last time nursing him, or only nearly so? And which time is the last time I'll swaddle him to sleep?

He cries now. Hungry? Lonely? Tired? Just for tonight I have all the patience he demands. I have willing arms and waiting sustenance. I have a spot saved by my side for his sleeping. And I cry with him. Not for sleep this time. Tonight my tears are for these deep blessings. For the mystery of these momentary miracles. For all the last first times of being mommy.

"But Mary treasured up all these things

and pondered them in her heart"

--Luke 2:19