I used to write. I used to write often. I loved it. I loved being able to put the wonder of the world around me into words that laughed and mourned and danced on my pages. I'm not sure what happened or when. I kind of stopped. I pretty much stopped all together. In fact, I haven't even written in my own journal for months now. I haven't been a consistent journal writer for years, but over the summer, when my belly was round and taut and full of anticipation and when my little girl and her daddy were all I lived for every day, I'd pick up my journal with a pen in hand and I'd see what came of it. Lots of times, the result was a list of drowsily scribbled to-do's trying to make sense of my week and fill the space in our waiting game. Every now and then, the result would include small and seemingly trivial details about my day. Those are the ones I like best. That's the way life really was and still is, even if I've failed to capture it again. When I open those pages, I am in the middle of summer, hot and sticky, fingers resting on a firm, beautiful tummy watching Lily scribble in side walk chalk, getting covered in the pastel powder as I try to teach her her shapes. We sat on the small landing at the top of our stairs, tucked back into the shady, grassy corner of our red-brick apartment complex. The air smelled of muggy grass and tomato plants and the scorching oil splotches of the parking lot. Darin would come home from work and we'd be complete. He'd hoist Lily up on his lap and ride his bike around the parking lot with her squealing in delight. Or we'd go inside with the swamp cooler blasting loud and cold and make chicken salad sandwiches for dinner and watch Master Chef. Sometimes I'd lay on the ground with my shirt pulled up around my belly and Darin would lay beside me, tucking my hair behind my ear and smoothing his soft fingers over my skin where just inside, under a few layers of a perfect home, there was a boy.
Now months later, the world outside is a pillowy-soft, frozen, white expanse. We're in a new home, a larger one. Lily runs and dances and explores her new space every day like it could never get old. She's made a new home of the island in the kitchen where she scoots and pulls a wooden stool to climb atop and help mama. Wielding a spoon, she sends small puffs of flour into the air while singing a song about mixing. We're comfortable in this space. We have room to stretch our legs, a perfect view of a temple spire from our front windows, and a fire to cozy up to when the lights are off and babies are in bed. Life is different now, but beautifully so. Lily climbed into Row Row's bed this morning and the two of them laughed at each other lying so close. I picked them both up and smiled at Lily's light and giggly reprimand spoken while Rowan pulled her hair and squealed. I love life with two. There are days, or rather stretched moments, when I feel like despite me having it all under control, everything explodes in an instant and I'm suddenly overwhelmed and out-numbered and gritting my teeth to keep from spewing forth an expletive that would undoubtedly be repeated in the small and innocent voice of a two year old. But they are passing moments. Mostly my days are filled with lots of giddy, high pitched exclamations from a little girl urging me to "Come on, mama! Look! See?!" about anything and everything around her, as well as the contented coos of a sweet, happy baby boy who rarely cries or fusses and who smiles a drooly, chubby-cheeked grin ninety-eight percent of the time. And now still, when Darin gets home, we are complete and whole in the same way we were when we were just three and when we were just two. We find each other smiling and sighing in response to the constant cuteness that happens around us as the other two grow.
I need to start writing again so that when it's warm again, or when my belly is round and taut for the fourth time, I can open the pages and be in the middle of this chilly winter with two babies and a hard-at-work husband who understands me so well it hurts. Here's to pulling out the pen again.
