Freeze Frame

Right now, my finger fits perfectly into my toddler's fist. His head is the missing puzzle piece for that space between my jaw and my collarbone. I am never tempted to shove him off my lap. (Unlike a few of the older ones whose bums are quite bony and who shift their weight in a highly uncomfortable manner the entire time they sit there.)

Stella's five year old body, with her knees pulled up to her chest and my arm under her head, curls perfectly into the C shape that my body makes from my shoulders to my knees. I know this fact because of the early morning visits from her that begin before the sun is up. She likes to tell me what she dreamed about while I doze in and out of wakefulness.

Creed runs at me full speed and leaps onto my upper torso, wrapping his arms around my neck and his legs around my waist, hooking his feet together behind me. There's no faking the joy on his face when I catch him. Sometimes, I sneak and hold his hand in public. He pretends not to notice, but I can see him stealing sidelong glances at me. He likes to sit in my lap when we read at night. He would collapse in embarrassment if he read this, but I think that someday he will remember it fondly.

Jack doesn't sit on my lap much anymore. He won't change his clothes in front of me. Public embraces have been replaced by one-armed side hugs. When I am the recipient of a full embrace from him (in the privacy of our own home) his face turns to the side and rests on my ribcage just below my chin. I can feel his arms under my armpits and wrapping around my back. We now wear the same shoe size. I've needed to go into his room to recover my Chuck Taylors. I have mistakenly donned his hoodies as I run around town, not noticing that I am wearing my son's clothes until I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass doors at Target. He likes to fall asleep in my bed when Robert is on call, and I can't bring myself to remove him to his own bed when I turn in for the evening. At eleven o'clock at night, when he is sound asleep in my bed, it's easy to remember the baby he used to be.

I remember when he would lead me on a tour of the planet with my finger in his fist.

I remember when we wasted* entire days snuggling, reading, singing, Mother Goosing . . .

I don't recall the last time he willingly embraced me in public, but you can bet that if it happens again, I will hold on a little bit longer.

I'm not wishing for my babies to stay babies, nor to I want to have another one.

Jack and I read the same books and have lively discussions about them. It's fun to have kids that are learning to play instruments and stretching creative muscles and noticing each other as more than that annoying person who is always there. No matter what. I taught the kids how to play Mafia a few weeks ago, for crying out loud. How fun is that?

I just think the spacing of my children was a really smart thing. Good job, me. Or good job, God. Either way, having kids at all different stages is a really good thing.

*Is that a waste of a day? I think not.