we were driving back from dinner the other night when i remembered i had a song i wanted my husband to listen to alongside me (the song listed above). mostly because it sounded what i think heaven sounds like and because i always ask if he could play the songs i love on the piano, to which he always says yes, without question.
when i finally got it to play, we had just pulled into our driveway, our house lit up by the lights we had left on and by the stars that seemed to still be soaking in the day's light. he turned off the engine, and there we sat, in the quiet and in the dark, taking in this orchestra together. it's amazing where a single song can take you and this song took us to a very sacred conversation of parenting and babies, marriage, and our days together.
how we want our days to be. what we want our son to experience. what we want to experience as a family of three, or four or five or six.
i just want my days to be slow and calm. i want to look out our windows at the birds resting from the sky and i want to always know when our hydrangeas are ready to be watered. i want to spend my days watching augustus learn the fine skill of stacking his blocks without having them crumble and i want to notice the little corners of my husbands mouth even more. i want to pick our produce from the farmer's market on sunday morning and spend too long smelling the blood oranges and clementines. i want to always travel the distance of my baby's forehead into the slope of his nose until he falls asleep and i want to stop what i'm doing to watch my husband close his eyes when he's writing a piece on his piano.
i want to cry less about what i look like and more about what it feels like to watch my little one wake up in the morning after a long night's sleep. i want to rely on the miraculous timing of god to give us our second baby and not on the time in which my phone says i'm fertile. i want to tell my husband every single day how much he is loved and worshipped and adored and respected. i want the voice my babies hear in their head of their mother to be soft and kind and safe and comforting. i want to stifle out any other noise that says they are anything less than star crafted and wonderful.
i want to be my own poet and write hundreds of words a day because it feels really fucking good to do so. i want there to be loads of tea boxes in our cupboards and blankets stacked for the nights that are cold and an extra pair of sandals in our car for last minute trips to the ocean. i want to always kiss my husband in front of our children so that they feel our love and carry it into whatever way they choose to love.
i want to always notice when our sheets have been washed and when my husband has been working out a little harder and compliment him on it. i want to always notice when he takes it upon himself to sweep or make our coffee and bring my favorite mug down from the shelf. i want to say thank you i love you thank you i love you more than all else.
i want my motherhood to be another testament of my love. i want to be heard by my children so that they know wherever they are, i am there, belonging to their very movements, telling them each and every step that the world always wants us to choose love despite what we may think.
i want to listen to songs together and ask what they think when they hear the president speak and what they feel when they see someone wandering for help on the street.
i want our days to be good and real and messy in all the ways that will ever matter. i don't need anyone else's life. i don't need anyone else's version of love.
i need mine. i need ours. i need exactly all that i have.