Dear God,

This last week, both girls have been sick – and Bob too, in parts – and I’ve really been reflecting on just what the trenches of motherhood entail. I’ve been thinking about the view and of how, really, this time I have with them – when they want me to hold them, to help them, to comfort them; when they believe I can make everything better; when they can be contained in the circle of my embrace – this time is short. These long hours with a small fevered head on my shoulder, and the interrupted nights of coughing and crying, and the endless array of popsicles and Sprite will be gone oh-so-soon. Before long, they’ll be gone – off to college, coming home engaged, bringing me their babies. It’s hard to remember that the tempering you give me now in this furnace of young motherhood will serve me when the challenges are different, when the stakes are higher.

When I’m up to my knees in the mud from the trenches, it’s hard to give you praise and thank you for noticing me. It’s hard to see all this as a blessing and it’s hard to think of you as a friend for sending it my way (though you may not be the direct cause, I know).

But, God, when I see a smile from the baby and hear the tinkling laugh of the toddler playing with her…when I catch my husband’s eye over the soft head on my shoulder…when I sit in the silence of the house, cluttered with toys and “lived in” to the extreme…when I find myself just gazing, just loving, just happy to be there, with them all…I wonder if I would appreciate any of these times without the trenches. I’m not sure if I could fully know how sweet those moments are if I hadn’t rocked a fussy baby for two hours, settled both of us back in bed, barely closed my eyes and had a toddler standing there. I’m sure I’d resent the demand of being needed – of being “popular” – if I hadn’t felt the smile forming while she was first learning (painfully!) to nurse. The pain of motherhood is constant, but so is the joy, if only I can turn my gaze and my attitude from ME to YOU.

Because, God, it’s when I’m gazing at you that I best love them. It’s when I’m focusing on what you want that they get the best mother. It’s when I’m pulling myself toward your will that the trenches seem heavenly.

You see, the trenches aren’t so bad. They’re not dull, that’s for sure – there’s color and activity and plenty to do. There’s no shortage of opportunities to involve you, God. I can’t fight this battle without you, and I sure can’t make it through the trenches if you’re not with me. So maybe the trenches are the secret blessing of motherhood, your little no-extra-charge bonus. And I can take the graces you offer through them, or I can keep trying to climb out to the garden party.

The thing is, I don’t think I’d like the garden party, with its cozy chairs and easy pace. I’m pretty sure that, in the slow pace and full belly of it, that I’d lose sight of you pretty quickly. Knowing myself, I have to wonder if I’d stick with those prayers, if I’d thank you as often, if I’d even check in with you between all my nap times and play times and enrichment times.

The trenches end, I know that. I suspect, from other mothers that I talk to, that I’ll even miss this craziness and chaos.

And when I look at them sleeping so peacefully, when I feel the weight of a “Hi Mommy!” first-thing-in-the-morning hug, when I see just how fast they grow – I can see why I’ll miss it.

I might be in the trenches, but right now, I’m a working first lieutenant. My crew believes me and trusts me. The trenches may not be the prettiest assignment, but there’s a beauty in it.

So thanks, God. Thanks for stationing me in the trenches.

Now help me get through them!

Love,
Sarah

Dear Mamie,

Sweet baby, I have held you for nearly three months, and you are growing and changing and becoming more YOU so quickly. You’re such an individual in our home, and you own an irreplaceable spot in our hearts (and have, from the very beginning). We can no longer imagine our lives Mamie-less.

There are so many things I want to remember about you. I find myself holding you more than I held Babs, because I better understand just how brief this stint of your smallness will be. I don’t know how many more babies God will bless us with, and I want to make sure I savor you in your baby-ness.

I want to remember the small warm weight of you in my arms, taking up the entirety of their circle. I want to remember your grunting and cooing noises filling the space between smiles and contented sleep. I want to remember the smell of Dreft on your clothes and lotion on your body.

I see the piles of your little clothes on the table, and I want to remember how small they are, and how they looked on you. I come across old pictures of Babs as a baby, and I want to remember how, each day, we see glimpses of her in you and you in her. I want to remember how you respond to her, how you calm down when she talks to you and how she delights in being your big sister.

I’ve been trying to remember you since you were inside me. I want to remember your kicking feet and how you were so stretched out inside me that you were up inside my ribs. I want to remember how you were born, and how it felt to hold your still-slimy body against mine on that first day. I want to remember, maybe most of all, your father’s face as he met you for the first time.

Before I know it, YOU will be the three-year-old with the distinctive fashion sense and the cute little observations about life. It won’t be long and my two little girls will be off. You, dear baby, I must cherish as the gift you are right now. When you wake in the middle of the night or interrupt what I’m doing with a cry, I have to remember how I’ll long to nurse you someday, how I’ll miss cuddling your feet, how I’ll want to look back at pictures to recall how your daddy played with you.

We laugh a lot, thanks to the adventures and trials of parenthood, and I want to remember how we laugh at your diaper explosions, which happen at least twice a day (giving me ever more chances to reflect on your small clothes as they pass through the laundry!). I want to remember how we laugh at the piles of toys Babs “shares” with you while you lay on your blanket on the floor. I want to remember the laughter – the baby laughs and the child laughs and the adult laughs – and share it with this old house, which seems happier when its filled with lots of people laughing.

I don’t want to forget, baby Mamie, the easy way you smile at me, and how those smiles erase the pain I feel sometimes. I don’t want to forget how you are so very different than your sister, how you sleep through the night more some weeks than she does, how you sleep with your arms in the air (which, I know, is a trait all babies your age share; there’s a name for it and everything). I don’t want to forget the way your feet are too big for most of the socks that should fit you, how your hair seems to be curly, how you have that little blue vein between your eyes.

I want to remember my grandma’s face when she met you, her second great-granddaughter. I want to gaze at her gazing at you and imprint it on my memory, so that if I am ever a great-grandmother, I can share it with my great-grandchildren. I want to remember how my youngest siblings looked at you in the hospital and seemed to marvel at how small you were. I want to remember how your older sister was delighted to finally meet you and how she still, three months later, exclaims “Baby came out of your TUMMY, Mommy!”, reminding me anew of the miracle you are.

There are so many things, my sweet girl, that I want to remember. As I snap away with my camera and struggle to stop long enough in my busy days to jot some notes, I want to remember most of all how very blessed I feel – even on the days when nothing goes as I think it should – to have you in my arms. I want you to feel that someday, a feeling of overflowing and peace with God.

With love,
Your mother