This morning she poked the soccer ball on his shirt and giggled. Ba Ba Ba. He laughed, she did it again. These two, oh my.
We were playing in the back yard, the happiest rulers of our new acquired kingdom. On his knees, he studied bugs as they disappeared in the brown earth. Where did they go, I asked. Under the grass, see.
And he decided he was old enough to be the puller of the wagon rather than a rider, so little sister got a stop and go trip as his little arms entered into a new season of life. She pleasantly bumped along with the wind in her hair and he wore a smile larger than his three year old soul has ever seen. I sauntered behind, reveling in this new phase. I can do it, mama. My arms relieved, my heart swelling.
They bloom and we get a front row seat.
I’m not even sad about it.
I mean, the blessed and beautiful thing is how adorable, helpless babies do, in fact, grow up. They learn to feed themselves, sleep, communicate and turn into these creatures full of possibilities and potential. I might be crazy for thinking this, but each season is just as long as it should be. on purpose.
I believe it more every single day. Would this great human struggle to wrangle and control months and years and days get easier if we just let it be true?
The entire world is set in motion, seasons rise and fall with the brushstrokes of the maker, flowers burst into life for moments then petals fall and become earth again, oceans swell and recede. Hours tick away without ever daring to ask our permission. We control none of this.
Babies begin in your heart and thrive in your arms and one day they start to bloom, gently releasing your grip from the handle, saying, I can do it, mama.