Little hands, little feet

I think it's holding a child's hand that got me hooked on motherhood. Growing up, I didn't really dream of having a lot of babies, and even though I've always liked children, up until my late twenties I wasn't sure about having my own, to tell you the truth I was a little scared and put off by the idea.

And then for five years little B was in my life. We adored each other. And did spent a lot of time together without her parents, where I would bring her everywhere, from my dad's house to the mall to a Cirque du Soleil show once. And every time, walking with her by my side, her hand in mine, unexpectedly sent me into bliss. I couldn't explain it. It was just so wonderful, so natural, so precious.

When we had LP, during these first few days of complete emotional high, I couldn't help thinking all the time: "He's ours. He's staying. Isn't incredible? We get to keep him and and he's not going anywhere." And I must say, holding him by the hand still has the same effect on me, still brings me this total inner peace mixed with this amazement and blessedness that I get to care for this child. It's love. It's warmth. It's motherly pride. It's comfort, and it's emotional security, all rolled into one. Whenever we go somewhere and he reaches for my hand with his small one, I melt. He's mine. And I'm his mother and he needs me. So much symbolism and power into little hands.

Since I went back to work, our morning routine is that I get up before everyone else, usually work out, and then shut myself in the bathroom to get ready for the day. I close the door because our bathroom is right next to the bedrooms and I don't want to wake my boys up too early. Then, when I'm done, I come get them up both.

I've come to love this "me time" very early in the morning, the house completely quiet, the feeling of not being too hurried, alone with my thoughts. But more and more often lately, there has been a change in that well-rounded order. Suddenly while drying my hair or putting on makeup, the silence of the rest of the house is broken. I hear a thumping on the floor, the sound of little feet signaling me that a boy has awoken early and is running towards me. So I open the door, and there he is, sleepy head, crazy haired, flushed-cheeked, smiling. "Maman!" he says in genuine and happy surprise, even though the mornings where I was not there to see him wake up since he was born have been incredibly few. And all I want to do is kiss these little feet and hope that they will always bring him back to me.