I knocked on the door. As expected, she was still asleep.
She’s always slept in a little ball, with the covers pulled nearly over her head. I admit — seeing her like that after such an absence, after having her sweep in at nearly midnight looking every inch like a grown up … it did my heart good.
My plan was to slip under the blankets before she awoke and have a few minutes of Momma time before I had to share her with the rest of the family. But her alarm went off just then. When her eyes opened and she saw me there, she reached for the baby, and that was it. I had lost my chance.
She’s been swamped by siblings all day, from that first moment. Hugs from brothers who dwarf her in size, her lap filled the moment it is emptied, her ears ringing with every story, every detail of every moment from August till now.
I cried when they ambushed her on the stairs. I’m not too proud to admit that I cried again a few moments later when they crushed her again. Suddenly, I understood that old Folger’s commercial where the mom comes down in the morning to find her kids talking over their coffee and goes misty.
Yes.
I’m snagging her when I can, in precious moments as she slips by me in the kitchen, or happens to be sitting still on the couch teaching another small person how to take a pulse. She’s here. I can touch her. Kiss her forehead. See her smile.
That quote about a mother’s heart walking around outside of her body? It’s real, and then some. For now, today, I have eight out of nine pieces of my heart under my roof. I wish for more. I pray for more. But today, it’s enough.
