Life has been rushing by. I swear, it was Christmas, and then I blinked and now it's February. My son will be six years old this month, and I have spent time thinking back over fond memories of his early days, months, and years. I think about how it was six years ago today, when I knew his arrival would happen in weeks. I had pregnancy complications that guaranteed a scheduled c-section, and we were aiming for his arrival at one month premature.
Of course my blood pressure would start to rise, just when I thought it would be smooth sailing. Preeclampsia forced me into bed rest, which at first sounded restful, but it isn't. I had a lot of time for thinking about my sweet son. In those quiet times I realized that these were the last days of a unique part of our relationship. Soon he would be outside me, and I'd share him with the world. I cherished each of his movements, every kick that assured me our child would have an affinity for drums, every sideways stretch where he'd push his head against the left side of my rib cage, and his feet against the right side and do his best to persuade bones to move in a manner in which they do not. I would wince when he bashed against my bladder but smile to myself at his strength.
This morning I roused a sleepy boy out of bed for school, and he immediately cuddled up in my lap, snuggling against me, pushing his body into mine. "I want back in," he said in a sleep-roughened voice. I laughed, and told him he most definitely won't fit. What he really wanted was the warm covers and soft bed, to ease down into comfort and slip away again to dreamland. I held him, capturing the moment in my mind and celebrating that my arms are his contentment, and he is my blessing.
Our weekday mornings are hectic, but today I chose to take the time to appreciate my son. Those few minutes of love and snuggles have left me with a happy heart, and on a Monday that is one fine thing.