It’s “quiet time” in our house.
The 3-year-old doesn’t have to sleep — just play quietly in his room — and he’s inched himself as close to the doorway as possible, driving his toy car into the hallway. The almost-two-year-old is napping soundly in her crib. And then there’s the fresh one, sleepy eyes at half-mast, swaddled in a muslin wrap with powder-pink stripes cradled in my lap. She is sweet as ever.
This first week has been the easiest first week of the three little ones.
It started with, yes, a natural birth. A story that deserves a blog post all its own some time — the details of which mirror both a beautiful, spiritual experience — and a suffering elephant birthing forth her 300 lb calf in a field in Africa. I haven’t decided which one to go with, but I can say I am glad I did it.
And no, my husband did not tell me once to relax my face. Mostly because – when the going got tough – I was ordering, “Don’t talk to me,” followed by a quick, “Love you.”
But afterwards? I felt pretty awesome.
In an I-ran-a-marathon, wrote-a-book, Bucket List sort of way, I had been joined with the centuries of women before me who had experienced the same, well, experience. But mostly: in my arms laid a healthy, stunningly beautiful, 9 lb, 10 oz (yes, almost 10-pounder!) little girl and I was a mama once again.
And in the same hospital where we were surprised with the news of a Down Syndrome diagnosis just 21 months ago, I sat last weekend holding a newborn little sister, eating Papa John’s pizza, surrounded by the love of extended family, knowing once again: we are so blessed.