My hand covers her entire back. Tonight as she struggled into sleep, I covered her with my hand. I could see the whiteness of my skin contrasting with the blackness of hers. Her hair wound up tightly in its natural ready-made knots.
A soft warmth bloomed in my heart.
It was a sweet quiet moment that had been preceeding with much fussing and fighting in the process of bedtime.
I'm choosing to revel in that.
And I'm holding onto all the positive things that we're already seeing:
The trust that she is already showing.
The bonds that are building between her and her siblings.
The new skills and words that she learns with every new day.
It may seem as though these are really great things--and they are. But the sweet moments are surrounded by many, many other kinds of moments.
The moments where you want to tear your hair out.
The moments where you just want peace and quiet for five minutes.
The moments where you would like to not hear a child calling for help because there isn't enough of you.
The moments that realizes that you are woefully ill-equipped for such a monumental task as motherhood.
The moments that drive the tears to your eyes and your knees to the floor in desperation.
These past two weeks have been a crash course into the new normal that is our life. We're all in the process of figuring it out--for every single person in this house, there are new skills to learn, abilities to adapt, grace to give, patience to practice. Some moments are good, some are not.
I'm not going to sugarcoat anything to make you think that this new life is the greatest thing ever. I certainly don't feel that way--yet.
But as with every hard thing I've done, I know there comes that sweet moment, where something is realized--whether it be the realization of a goal or a blooming hope that reminds you that this stage is not forever, that things will get better.
I'm holding on to reach that moment.