So I listen to country music.  Not all the time, mostly I listen to Laurie Berkner singing about her boots and dinosaurs, or a CD we got from PJ Library that’s filled with Hebrew (which is a language I completely don’t understand).  But occasionally, I do shut off the kids CD’s and put on grown up music.  But sadly, I’m so far removed from popular culture now, the only stations that seem to play music I recognize is the lone country station and the three classic rock stations.

Today, I happened to get Julie to sleep late.  It doesn’t happen often enough, but every now and again, she’ll have a marathon sleeping night and just conk out until around nine thirty or ten.  So I had the car to myself after dropping Jessie and Sam off at school (Marc was home with sleeping Jules), and I was listening to actual music on the drive home and this song came on.  It’s by Trace Adkins, or Atkins, maybe.  I don’t know.  But the song made me a little misty – just because it’s about a guy constantly trying to tell his daughter to slow down, just a little, and look at what you’ve got right now.

It’s crazy right now, Marc’s working a zillion hours, and he’s never home anymore.  The kids are always battling or doing homework or shuttling between school and another activity, and sometimes it’s hard to remember to take a deep breath, let alone take some time to actually realize that this won’t last forever.  And when it’s gone, I’m going to miss it.

I already miss the time that’s gone.  The time when it was just Marc and I – that lovely little window when it was just us, and the only thing we had to concentrate on was each other.  Then with tiny baby Jessie, when she was so little and so incredibly perfect.  That time when I was a new mom, in love with my baby and my new life, and everything was so wonderful I couldn’t believe it was mine.  Then as she got bigger, and Marc and I got more settled, more together, more of a unit – deciding to have another baby.  Finding out that I was pregnant with Sam, and feeling that sense of utter rightness.  With this man that I loved, this beautiful baby I couldn’t get enough of, and another one on the way.  Even Sam’s babyhood – as hard as it was – I’ll never have that again.  I miss that.  I miss having just the two of them, watching little Sammy toddle after his sisters, and how much he worshiped his daddy.  I miss nursing him until he would fall asleep, and slipping out from under him and leaving him napping on the couch.  I miss sending tiny little Jessie to kindergarten, and having her come tripping up the stairs after school.  She’d come home like a whirlwind, and it took my breath away each day.  And then deciding to have Julie – and taking that pregnancy test, feeling the first stirrings of the nausea and never ending morning sickness.  That first time I heard her heartbeat on the monitor, and just listened to it for an hour in the hospital, after I’d fallen when I was just out of the first trimester.  That achingly long pregnancy, when I wanted to hold my baby girl so badly, when I thought she’d never come out and I’d be pregnant and miserable and itching for the rest of my life.  Then her delivery – two pushes and I was laughing as she was born – she was so incredibly perfect, and I’m crying because, yeah, I miss that.

And I’ll miss this too – when Jessie still comes to me for help with her homework and tells me all her secrets, and Sammy still thinks playing with Julie is the best thing ever.  When Julie still tells me every day that she is my baby, and every now and again, will sling her arms around my neck and tell me how much she loves me.  And Marc, my Marc, who still calls me all day, just to hear my voice and stay connected.  I’ll miss this.

 

 

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