Birthday party. Families. Kids. Laughter. Crafts and cooperation.
I look at the three-year-olds and think how great they are. Fun. Much more independent.
I can talk with him now, not just to him.
I can see his imagination work, like images projected on an invisible screen.
He can help now, and he loves to. “We’re workers!” Said often, with joy and confidence.
Three is tough, but it’s also easier.
I look across the backyard at the two little ones.
One, just learning to walk and still so far from independent, to whom any vehicle of any kind is a “va-va.”
The other still a baby. A world filled with nursing, purees and the importance and inconvenience of naps.
They are both beautiful. I scoop each one up, amazed at his lightness. I breathe in the baby smell and remember what it’s like when they’re that squishy. I hold them and remember what it’s like to hold a child on my hip and know that I am his world.
I could do this again.
I want to do this again. So badly.
The second one is easier, people say.
Chances are your second wouldn’t be the same, they assure me.
Maybe.
I could hope so, but I don’t, knowing it could be the same. Or harder.
But I know more now.
And the wanting is a physical sensation that’s not going away.
It might be hard.
But I’m willing to do it again.
In order to be complete.
