That's right. A desert plain.
A seedless watermelon.
Kind of a miserable joy.
I mean, seriously, I was about to rip my innards out myself over the last few months of Mother Nature gift giving. She just felt ENORMOUSLY GENEROUS, and couldn't DO ENOUGH PRESENTING. (She must have heard I'm a hoarder.)
So it was time. And I was more than ready. I'd started throwing tampons out my car window like salt water taffy in a parade!
But then I was driving past Dillards~my 'go-to' department store for the most beautiful, classic baby/toddler clothing ever created~and without warning, my 41 year old heart about shattered to pieces! It was the sudden realization that I am...done. It is the finale. That in the blink of a "procedure," the curtain call has come, and I am bowing out of my child bearing years.
And something that has always been a choice, will now be, well, decided.
And yes, I know. I know what will go away. No more gas can remains being dumped over a tow-head toddler. No more overdose of Dimetap with a less than alert babysitter (Daddy). And no more screaming and doing the limp-body/floppy-arms-over-the-head-collapse while I try to grab them up in a pencil skirt and four inch heels.
No more hearing the scream and moan of a child, knowing that something is really, really wrong. No more bloody broken teeth while playing "airplane" and crash landing on the kitchen floor. No more chicken pox for Halloween, sharing the love, and infecting the rest of the siblings at even two week intervals.
That's right. None of those things.
Which also segues to some other no more childhood "stuff."
No more sun filtering through fly-away hair as you "WATCH ME JUMP (2 inches) HIGH!" on the trampoline. No more newborn nuzzling into my neck and lungs full of baby bouquet. And no more white eyelet blessing dresses with silk rose smocking.
No more lifting a slippery wet babe out of bubble baths and into their hooded towels. No more "Mark, Set, Go!" followed by a race to get into their pajamas. No more belly blows and "Whosagoodboy?" with hysterical baby laughter as a reward.
No more Christmas Eve fevers. No more matching Sunday ties. No more skinned noses for family pictures. No more swaying in a comforting rhythm.
No more...No more...No more.
Thus, the miserable joy.
I know it's time. I know it's a season. And I know it's fleeting.
And so, I bid adieu. I bow deep. I bow grateful. I bow in humility at the blessing of being trusted with these years. These babes. These sons and daughter of my very own.
And the curtain closes. Farewell.