missing babies

One of the very hardest thing about getting older is not having babies. 

Most of the time, I’m past the bittersweet mourning of fertility gone by.  But I have moments still when my heart gets tights and my throat gets dry.  The sweet smell of baby.  Then it is time to pause and take a deep breath and remember that I had my day.  I had my day.  It was a long and drawn out beautiful day, twenty years of having babies. I wouldn’t want anything to be different than it was.  Except. 

Except when I was short tempered.  Except when I fell short of my ideal.  Except when, in those brief moments when I forgot The Purpose.  The Beauty.  The Blessings.  I do not regret the holidays I didn’t take, the dishes that didn’t get done.  I do not regret not having an illustrious career and I do not regret stretch marks. 

I don’t regret babies in my bed, plastic dinosaurs in my tub and endless sleepless teething nights. 
But I am loving the sleep.  Being able to wear dresses.  Getting me some fitness. 

Hold your babies, close, mamas.  Hold them close. So you can, one day, let them go with grace, dignity and pride.  A little ache in your heart, too. 

There are so many beautiful things about being fifty that I am constantly amazed at the gifts God gives us at every age and stage.  Tonight, by way of example, I got to do in house pedicures with two of my grown daughters. 

And that, my friends, is icing on the “50” cake.