A little boy is playing in a yard.
He is filling the bed of a yellow dump truck up with sand from the sandbox. Once full, he will run it in circles on the grass, leaving a small trail to mark where he has been.
His sister is digging holes at the base of the newly planted apple tree, hunting for worms. The worms will be placed in a bucket and forgotten to a crispy purgatory of their own in a matter of hours.
Occasionally, their paths cross when he tries to take a worm and she dumps the sand out of the truck.
Neither aware of the woman standing at her kitchen window, watching them.
Watching them play in a world of their own. Marveling at just how much they have grown since last summer and just how much growing they both have left to do.
She remembers a nameless nurse placing a tiny bundle in her arms. She remembers bringing each of them home from the hospital. Each time, still amazed that this new life is her responsibility. She remembers holding each one of them thinking that this baby will never be so small again; it will never fit so neatly in her arms as it does tonight.
Memories dance in front of her eyes — midnight nursing snuggles, first foods, first words, first steps. The pain of those sleepless nights forgotten, washed in nostalgia. First day of schools — with backpacks bigger than torsos and smiles brighter than the sun, stepping onto the school bus, barely looking back to say goodbye. They will be back in a matter of hours, but time moves differently now.
Time is now marked by school days and days off; by shoes with worn soles and pants inches too short; by the constant flow of changing artwork on the walls. The toys scattered all over the floor are still there — legos replaced wooden blocks; dolls replace stuffed animals; crayons and books are the only constant.
She stands by the window and watches them play.
She recalls the past fondly, but doesn’t allow herself to remain there. She imagines who they will become — if they’ll have his drive for achievement but her magnetism for trouble. She prays they never lose the light in their eyes; their sense of freedom and security; their fierce self-advocacy.
Her rumination is interrupted by the sound of the screen door opening and the thud of little boots; sand falling across the linoleum creating a mess for her to clean up later.
The images of the future vanish and are replaced with the voices of children in the present, asking for her, needing her.
She knows time will continue to move, as it always does. But for now, she is satisfied holding her babies and knowing that they won’t be this small for much longer.
anothercrazymama 