the sky is a pinwheel of cloud and blue and we’re outside trying to be family but i’m all belly and cannot find the way out
and there’s drought in africa and flooding in alberta and hailstones the size of eggs and men and children and women gone missing and this is my biggest problem? this being unable to exit child into arms? when he is safest within, but how crowded it’s becoming…
the swing slows and i cry for the swelling in my soul, for at once i want to meet him and at once, keep him tucked inside, not knowing how to be a mother of two. they say the love multiplies but i’m divided and tired and wanting to crawl within my own womb and curl up fetus-like
but even as my aiden stands tall, king of his backyard-castle, hurtling balls onto grass “uh-oh” and laughing at me in his bare legs and blue shirt, i know a love deeper than sleepless nights and worn days.
and while he runs on legs so real, i still carry my eldest within. for while waiting turns into birthing turns into nursing, in many ways mothers are pregnant forever.
so for now i swing.
1. link up a post (old or new) that you feel is ‘broken’ or ‘imperfect’ or somehow redemptive
2. put the ‘imperfect prose’ button at the bottom of your post, so others can find their way back here (see button code in right-hand column of my blog)
3. read other’s prose, and encourage them!
*original of ‘asian mother and child’ done for kasher’s nursery; prints available here*
*apology: in a post earlier this week, i talk about the baby of a couple we know; some of you have expressed sympathy at her passing–she is, in fact, still alive; doctors don’t expect her to live long, but at this point, she’s still safe in her mama’s arms. prayers appreciated. thank you*