I know, intellectually, it won't be easier if and when we get to this place, because we'll just trade one set of challenges for another set, like potty training and juggling another baby, maybe.
This week, I've been crumbling at the most random moments, recognizing the sweetness and fleeting nature of this time with Anna. It won't be long that we can take our time getting breakfast ready, breaking mid-oatmeal-stir to read a book. It won't be forever that we can rock and rock in her room, with no place to hurry off to. Yesterday she fell asleep in my arms at a time I didn't expect, and when her lips gently parted, I could smell her sweet breath on my face. All snuggled up next to me, I remembered, as I often do in the quiet moments, how precious it is to be in this space with her.
I also remember in these moments how I am absent from them sometimes. The "Am I doing enough for/with her?" question still runs through my mind most days. I find myself wondering if it's OK that we just hung around the house yesterday, cooking, doing laundry, coloring, eating, jumping between the couch cushions on the floor and the piles of laundry. I think about what I could/should be doing both with and without her. In those moments, I'm not present, and I miss out on the beauty of this time with Anna.
Today I saw three hawks. One of them Anna and I saw in the few seconds that she and I happened to be looking out the front window. It flew toward the front door and up over our house. It was close enough that I could see the detail of it's white and brown chest. It brought me back to center, to the present moment. I often see hawks when I need to get grounded. They remind me that I am on my path, that no matter what I'm doing or not doing, we're going to be OK. And, most importantly, they remind me of the importance of just watching, like a hawk does, this moment we're in right now.