I won’t be around forever.
Someday I will be nothing more than a handful of memories shared on holidays, a dozen stories passed around the dinner table, and a hundred bedside prayers providing protection for years to come.
But when I’m gone, there will be people in this world who will remember what my house smelled like and how good my pumpkin cookies tasted fresh from the oven.
Especially one tiny scrap of a boy that has only just arrived.
He doesn’t know this yet, but he is my replacement. And not just mine, but that of all his grandparents who love him till it hurts, but who will be long gone before he reaches the age I am as I sit here writing this blog.
This does not make me sad.
This makes my heart grow heavy and my eyes get watery, but it’s not from sadness.
It’s from some kind of strange and sacred happiness I’ve never known before. I thought I felt it as a young mother, but there were burdens and questions and uncertainty tangled up with the joy, and I’m no longer sure it’s the same.
Now I’m a generation removed from the sleepless nights and lingering self-doubt.
Now I rest here quietly with my arms full, figuratively and literally, with the incredible weightless weight of my child’s child.
I would move mountains for him. I would cross deserts for him. I would (and I will) stand against the powers of Hell for him.
And one day he’ll make something of himself while I’ll move on to meet my Maker.
But this burden is not heavy at all. He nestles in my arms as naturally as breath fills my lungs. He gives me the strength of ten men (or should I say women) as he hiccups and breathes and makes scrunched-up faces in his sleep.
He’s lighter than a gallon of milk,
but he carries a lot of weight
in this world.