This year for Mother’s Day Adam gave me a beautiful silver bracelet engraved with the names of our kids. I love, love, love it. But a couple weeks earlier he gave me something even better: four whole days at my mom’s house up north with just Isaac.
I missed Adam and the three big kids. But I’m not going to lie. Walking into my mom’s house after a long travel day with just a baby in my arms was heavenly. Instead of kicking into high gear, unpacking bags and trying to get four excited kids tucked into bed for the night, I put Isaac to sleep and then sat down for dinner, just my mom and me.
I soaked up every bit of my mini-vacation. I had long, uninterrupted conversations with my mom and drank my coffee sitting down. I got to eat burgers with cousins I don’t normally get to see and then watch my sister blow out her birthday candles. I snapped a picture of my Aunt Mary holding Isaac for the first time. Each night I rocked Isaac to sleep to the sound of wind in the tall trees, and I think all that peace and quiet did something for him too. He slept all the way till morning for the first time at my mom’s (and hasn’t done it since we came home!).
On Saturday we met up with my extended family in Chicago for Purple Stride, a 5K to raise money for pancreatic cancer research, then had lunch together at my aunt and uncle’s gorgeous condo overlooking the Lake. On the way home I sat in the back of my mom’s Highlander next to Isaac as he slept. We quietly rolled along Lake Shore Drive, and I drank a coffee and thought about my dad. It’s been almost five years since pancreatic cancer took his life, but whenever I go back to Chicago it feels like he’s still there, just working an extra long day in his law office downtown. As we’d stood that morning with the masses of people getting ready to start the 5K, it seemed like he just might come walking up to us, in his suit and tie as always, black briefcase in his hand. But my dad’s been in heaven almost half a decade, and now it’s my Aunt Mary’s turn to fight pancreatic cancer.
I looked over at Isaac as he slept, his mushy cheeks pink from the wild Chicago wind, and it hit me he’s the third baby we’ve had since my dad died. It’s tempting to dismiss what everyone tells you as a new mom—that these years go so fast. I’ve had my share of long days (and nights) and it’s tempting to think life is standing still. That we’ll always have little kids. That we have a good idea what the next five years will hold. It feels safe to assume tomorrow will be just like today. But in my mom’s Highlander that day, all I could think was no. No, things don’t always stay as they are. No, we don’t know what’s ahead. And no, we really won’t be here forever.
When our weekend away ended, Isaac and I got on the plane heading home to Florida. Our landing was a bit rough that day, so I wrapped my arms tightly around him until we finally slowed down. We packed up our things and rode the tram across the airport. And as we passed through security, I suddenly saw them—three fair-haired kids pressed up against the glass. I waved at them and they started jumping up and down and squealing. Adam stood behind them, smiling and shaking his head. And I walked as fast as I could with Isaac, back into my regular life.
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