A Sacred Moment

This is the boys' last night in this house. I just rocked Little to sleep for the very last time in his room. It was heart-wrenching and bittersweet. I wanted to savor every millisecond of it. It truly felt like a holy experience as I sat there thinking about how much I've grown up in that room.

Little's room has always been the nursery. It was Big's nursery when he was born and has been the baby in our family's room ever since.

I sat there wondering how many miles I've rocked in the glider in that room.

I wondered how many times I looked at that clock. We sure have a love-hate relationship, that clock and me.

I recalled my mom and my sister helping set up the room as the nursery when I was pregnant with Big.

I had flashbacks of hundreds of the middle of the night feedings. Sometimes Hubby would come with me and just sit on the floor as I fed and rocked one of the boys. He knew I needed the support and sometimes, that was our only time to have an actual conversation.

I thought about all the hours spent playing and having one-on-one time with each of the boys in that room.

I pondered how many thousands of pages of books have been read in there.

I remembered all the times I sat in that glider and cried because I was so tired, so overwhelmed, so worried, or so plagued with mommy-guilt I could barely breathe.

I pictured my swollen legs propped up on the footstool while rocking and trying to nurse my first newborn son. My thighs were the same size as my knees, which were the same size as my calves, which were the same size as my ankles. I was horrified looking down at the tree stumps that used to be my legs.

I thought about my MOPS friends and how I felt the touch of Heaven through those women. These early years of motherhood have been the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. No contest. Period. I can't even begin to count the number of times I have wanted to give up. MOPS saved me. And they saved my family.

I sat there and wanted to remember every nook and cranny of that room: the angle of the window in relation to the glider, the order and position of the baby farm animals on the wall around the crib, the books, the crib, the color of the Baby Bumblebee Yellow paint on the walls.

A house may just be sticks and stones, bricks and mortar, but my memories in this house are priceless and eternal. Although I've only lived in this house for seven and half years, as opposed to the 14 years I lived in my parents' current home, I feel as though this is the house in which I grew up. And that's for one simple reason: this is the house in which I became a mom.