The kids are in their cribs supposedly napping. Instead, I hear Emily yelling “Hi!” and Andrew giggling. I can picture them. Emily is pressing her face against the mesh walls of her Pac N’ play while Andrew, on his hands and knees, stares at her through his own mesh surface. Their faces are lit up with unadulterated joy.
They are best friends.
When in our living room, Andrew is not too interested in me. His eyes are stuck on his sister. They follow her everywhere. He smiles as she runs from room to room, creating havoc. He babbles when she starts singing. He laughs, really laughs, when his sister twirls, hops, and jigs to unheard music.
I look at them and remember.
The horrific pregnancies. The long nights. The colic. The postpartum depression.
The easy births. Our first moments together. Their first smiles. Their first laughs.
The good, the bad, the happy, the sad, the frustrating, the fun, the painful, the joy–mixed together in life’s blender, a combination of bitter and sweet, to be drunk daily. And I do. Every last drop. Because it’s worth it.
Right now, I listen to their silly noises and I feel at peace.
One day I will have another baby. I will feel their movements inside me. We will grow together for nine months. We will meet and I will cry tears of immense joy.
That sweet baby will have instant best friends. Soon I will hear her or him laughing and playing with their siblings during nap time, and I will remember today. I may even read these words again. My heart will swell–for a second time–with feelings of great gratitude.
A tender mercy that I will not forget, but will embrace. Fully.