Thankful

I've just finished my morning exercise routine. It took a little longer than usual, because during the 40 minute workout I also changed three diapers and did my best to pacify/not step on two whiny, curious, squirmy little boys.

I’m stretching, now. I get a good two minutes in of peaceful, tension-releasing stretches. It feels good. My mind is quiet, calm, and I can see the green, red, and golden leaves of a Georgia fall outside. Then James sees me.

“You stetching?”

“Uh-huh.”

He grins at me—his terrifying, endearing, mischievous grin that always gets me, no matter what he’s just done or what he’s about to do. Then, he starts the climb. I’m sitting on the floor reaching out to one of my feet. He squeezes between my arms and leg like a moray eel, then, still grinning, flops in my lap and wriggles back around me to climb up to my shoulders.

Meanwhile, Owen notices me, too. He is curious, and so he stands up using my two arms to support himself. This puts his face directly next to mine. As soon as he realizes I won’t let him eat my nose, he starts pressing his forehead into mine as hard as he can, giggling all the while. I press back and laugh, too.

Owen is all over me in front. James is going through the same imaginative ADD I remember from little-girl Cambrie on my back. I am a mountain, and he is the king of it. I am a slide. “Whoooooaaa!” I am a means of transportation. “Mommy you a hohsey! Gidee-up!”

This is one of those moments where I fully acknowledge the difficulties of motherhood (Can I not even get in a legitimate and effective workout? Where did my personal space go? And why is there slobber on my arm and snot on my pants?) and somehow still love it, smothered by the nine month old and two-and-a-half year old I love.

I am surrounded, but instead of drowning, I am filled. These creatures that demand so much of me—that have taken from me, worn me down, brought me to tears of frustration, and, just last night, given me my first offspring-induced bloody nose (James’ head is hard)—have also changed me. They build me up. They make me more than I ever thought or assumed I would be. They need me, and I need them.

All semblance of stretching now gone, we start to wrestle on the floor. I live for these shrieks and giggles. And I’m grateful for them, even if life (as I might be tempted to define it) sometimes seems impossible to carry on with them around.

What is life, without them? They are my life. And when they are grown and gone, my life will still be good and full. After all, I will only be who I am because of the hard, exhausting, heart-wrenching, deep, glorious ways they have forced me to change for the better.

And for that, I can never thank them enough.