aftermath of the nuclear explosion

My youngest son has the attention span of a one year old.

He is one year old.

His three year old sister said she didn't want him playing in the play kitchen in her bedroom this morning because he makes a huge mess.  Just walking to her room to retrieve him, I had to step over a colander and a couple tupperwear lids.  I keep them in a low cabinet for him to rediscover whenever I am cooking and don't want him to hurt himself.

     I have the attention span of a mother who's entire insides have been messed up.  Hello child, you walked through my mind and left impressively large footprints all over my best plans, slobbered all over my heart until it was a leaking sobbing mess, turned my studied knowledge into self doubt and fears of what if I'm not doing this right, will I be good enough, AM I good enough, no I am for sure not, this is more than I can capably care for,  not so much the stewardship of his body but of the spirit and soul inside. 

 I do not want to drop and shatter it. 

      I have always been prone to walk into walls.  Sometimes my hip bumps the edge of the counter I so intentionally walked the rest of myself away from.  How did I not remember that my hips stick out like that,  just below eyesight.  

Once,

 (this only happened once) 

when I was pregnant with my first child, I scraped my baby belly on the counter of the narrow kitchen in the second story upstairs apartment where I lived  waited and did all I knew to prepare for her.  It left a mark on my skin, a long scratch that bled and looked worse than it was.

Skin is thinner than it looks yet it holds everything inside of us inside.

I remember marveling that she was in there, her own person, just on the other side of my skin.

So close, yet the scratch that caused me to bleed did not even almost touch her.

     My children are the thing of which I am the most proud.  

 And here's the thing about the youngest, the babiest of them all: the thing that makes me the most proud of him is that he is still little enough to fit in my arms.  Not only is he little enough, he is the PERFECT FIT for a hug, and when all of him is snuggly inside my embrace, just his little legs dangle and swing, just his arms hug me back.  Sometimes he even rests his head on my shoulder.  His chocolate chip eyes sparkle with mischief even as he wiggles out and down.  Off to go and create a life of tupperwear and strainers and all of the things that make up a kitchen and contain a life.

XOXO,