Breathing

Children take us by storm.
Sometimes it is lightning love,
Bright and blazing, sudden and illuminating.
Sometimes, it is like the fog rolling in off the hills into the valley.
All-consuming, all-encompassing, all-covering.
Sometimes, a bit heavy.

Tonight I left the house for two hours.
Abruptly.  Shortly after Bill got home.  My baby was asleep and peaceful.  My oldest would be ready for bed soon.

"So you got this?  You can heat up some leftovers for dinner? Because I just need to leave for a little bit.  I just need to get out of this house."

By myself.
Without it being a project.
I don't even have a destination in mind.

He knows I'll come back.
Without even asking when.
He knows this nursing mama will painfully fill up again and I'll find my way home.

When I was in labor with Landon I hit a spell when the contractions seemed to double up.  I'd have one, and without the break that would save my sanity, another one would come right after.  I remember my fear that I couldn't hack this new pace and repeating helplessly to my doula, "There's no break! There's no break!"

"Keep breathing.  Look at me.  LOOK at me.  Keep breathing," she said.
And I did.
Raspy, frightened breaths,  barely holding on.

A lifetime passed, and then one minute more. The pain went back to its ebb and flow. Those double-back contractions finally went away.

Micah's birth was not like that.  But something about this second round of motherhood is.
At least today.

My eyes are watery and my nerves flail.  My hormones take me on wild rides that jangle my confidence.  When he sleeps or is peaceful I think I'll find my center again, but there is another sweet guy who'd like some attention, too.  He asks so sadly, "Mom, please, can we DO something?  Mom, I don't want to be upstairs by myself.  I get so lonely.  When are you going to get up?"

And I hear my frightened self saying inside, "There's no break."

Spending time with my kids is not painful; please don't stretch the metaphor that far.

It is, however, relentless.

With two, the ebb and flow of it has been temporarily disrupted.

So I left my house tonight for two hours.
Abruptly, shortly after Bill got home.

God, I'm looking at you. 
And breathing.