while the baby sleeps

The dishes are clean.

The countertops shine, the pillows are straightened, and all her toys are put away. I hear the sound of the washer upstairs, and it is a soothing sound. The smudges of baby food and dirt rinse away, and a domestic rhythm develops from the swishing, the ticking of the clock on the wall, and the chattering birds outside.

The baby is sleeping, my husband is away. I catch a glimpse of my hands in my lap, and study them for a minute or two. They've had a busy day, and now are drawn to write. I am grateful for the drawing... its reliability, its ruthlessness. The discipline of it holds me accountable, the joy of it keeps me sane, the challenge of it drives me to excellence. And when I am old, I will have memories captured on these pages that are no longer in my mind.

This season is rushing by, as people warned us it would... and although the days are anything but slow and quiet, there is a whisper inherent in all that's happening.

Cherish it. Stay present. Write it down... all of it. 

- - - 

Like the way it feels to lay her down in her crib, kiss her doughy cheek, tuck her little lamb into her arms, and tiptoe out of the room. The way I rub my arms because they're sore, and my breath catches because I just acknowledged again how fast she's growing.

Like the way my husband and I collapse exhausted into our bed at the end of the day, with fullness in our hearts... and how GOOD THE BED FEELS. The way his voice sounds when he's looking at me and baby girl, and says, "My girls." The way being parents is humbling us, in our hearts but also in front of one another... and yet with each fumble and apology, we grow closer to each other and the Lord.

The way the victory rushes over me when I look at her face and realize she's finally figured out how to make that toy light up, or mimic my hands as I clap. Does she know how proud I already am of her? The pleasure that thought brings me, and the way I lean down and kiss her face with an abandon that in 13 years will embarrass her to no end.

Like the way it feels to be on my hands and knees in the kitchen, cleaning pureed beets and peas off the floor again, while the baby screams and the doubts press in... and the way the Lord speaks calm into those moments, and leads me out of them.

The way her two baby teeth look when she smiles so big, and everything inside me bursts apart.

Like the way it feels to curl up beside my husband on the couch, when the baby is finally asleep. Turning on those last few episodes of Downton Abbey that we missed, as we thank God for the blessings He has given.

The way my faces turns red when I'm strolling through Target and she has a melt-down, because she's missed her nap and is understandably miserable, but my mind is temporarily assaulted with an awareness of 13 people looking at me and finding me guilty of robbing them of a pleasant shopping experience. The way I have to pull into an aisle and hold her close to me, and breathe her in, her tears threatening to mingle with my own as I re-align my heart to His heart, and shake the cares of the world and my selfish flesh away.

Like the way it feels to get dressed up and go on a date with my love, so giddy and excited, feeling flirty and beautiful... and then bursting into tears when we get in the car because WE'RE LEAVING HER AND LIFE IS OVER!!! The way my husband reaches for my hand and smiles that sweet smile that calms me, as the world once again rights itself. The way I check the mirror to assess the mascara damage, and we move forward into a much-needed and anticipated beautiful evening together.

When I fold her sweet baby clothes, and put them away in the drawer. The way it feels to shut them away and estimate how many more times she can wear those yellow PJs.

The love. The wrenching, extravagant ache of it all. The joy she brings, the way she teaches us of holy things even before she knows the meaning of the word. The rich, golden, bursting happiness.

---

There are those days that are extremely hard, and I'm caught off-guard. The days are full of chatter and noise, spontaneity, unexpected re-routes, messy cleanups, and at times my introverted personality feels stretched beyond its limits. I'm having to learn how to accept help, and ask for it. Sometimes, I  feel like I'm having to hourly swallow big, awful gulps of pride.

But slowly, as she grows, so do I. Slowly, as she learns, I do too.

In the moments when she sits quietly and processes, when her are hands busy and her murmurs few, I pray that the silences will never be empty for her. That as she absorbs everything, makes sense of it, figures it out, she will be aware of His presence and His voice. That she will never feel alone - but that when she does, she will listen, and ask Him to speak.

Time changes much, but not all. And as she grows, I grow too.

And while the baby sleeps, I write.