The waiting room was crowded. I found one seat but not two together. M stood by the door and waited.

The crowd was what you might expect. Adults looking very uncomfortable and trying to distract themselves from their full bladders. One gentleman in a wheelchair. A few people clearly waiting for someone who had already ventured back to the exam rooms for an ultrasound or xray.

Poking out of a stroller, just two seats down from me, was a cast. A tightly wrapped cast concealing the bottom half of a baby leg. I couldn’t see the baby behind the hood of the stroller but the legs said it all. Glorious baby pudginess, right down to the cast.

The stroller faced a woman about my age with blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. Next to her a boy, probably about age 4 or 5, hung onto the arm of her chair.

The baby seemed content but the boy, he required some entertaining. He and his mother talked about waiting. He asked why they were waiting. She compared it to being in school and waiting in line. She played clapping games with him. She watched him with a smile as he taught the game to the baby in the stroller. They talked about lunch and what they would eat when they returned home. The boy whimpered in some kind of pain and the mother quietly comforted him. The baby in the stroller fussed and she tended quickly and quietly.

Not once did either child reach the stunning octaves that I know uncomfortable children can reach. Not once did they fuss for longer than a few seconds. Not once did the mother’s tone exhibit any kind of edge.

Through it all, the mother kept calm. She was patient and she was steady. She did not fluster.

A door opened to my right and a nurse called out a name. The mother looked up, calmly corrected the nurse’s pronunciation, and began to collect her brood. As she wheeled the stroller towards the door the nurse exclaimed, “And what happened to you!?”

“Oh she and I fell down a hill together. It’s been a crazy week!” The rest of her explanation was drowned out by the boy, eager to share the story behind his sister’s cast. I could hear him talking as they walked down the hall. I could also hear the nurse, reacting to the story all while prepping the boy for the tests he was about to undergo.

Before they even walked to the door, before I learned that the cast and their trip to the radiology department were unrelated, before I witnessed the mother calmly recounting what sounded like a hellish week to a nurse she had clearly met before, I was in awe of this woman.

Where did her calm come from? With two children clearly experiencing some kind of pain, how did she stay so zen?

And, let’s be honest, it doesn’t matter whether she breastfed or bottle fed or cloth diapered or disposable diapered or any of the other things we’re supposed to be at odds over. She was more than Mom enough.

I didn’t stop her to tell her how amazing I thought she was or how lovely her children were. I wanted to, but I didn’t. Caught up in my own reasons for being there that day. Nervous that what I wanted to convey would not come out through my words.  I didn’t give her that boost that I know we all need as moms. I wish that I had.

But I hope someone, somewhere, gave that woman a hug that day. I hope someone told her that she is doing an amazing job.

~~~

linking up with Shell for Pour Your Heart Out.

“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

It took all of my strength to mutter those words quietly as I lay across my bed. My stomach felt unsettled and queasy. I was sure I’d be getting sick at any minute.

M lay next to me. Suffering from a terrible cold that had been keeping him down for days.

“Why do you say that?” as his hand reached for mine.

“Because. I feel so awful. I can’t give her all of the attention that I want to give her, or usually give her, right now. And it’s only going to get worse.”

A few moments passed. Baby, in the meantime, seemed unfazed by my perceived lack of attention or by the conversation taking place next to her. With both of her parents stretched out on their bed, she took her place next to us and began quietly drawing.

“I think that’s ok.” he reassured me. “She gets a lot of attention now. Maybe too much. It might do her good to have more balance.”

I nodded. Maybe.

Hours later, over lunch but while Baby was out of earshot, he brought it up again.

“I’m worried. I don’t want to give her less attention. I’m worried about her. I don’t want things to change. What if she feels she wasn’t good enough?”

And so we talked some more. We talked about how he had been right earlier (and he, of course, loved that). How this is a year of a lot of change. Change is scary. Overwhelming. New child. New home. New routines. New school. And, right now, all we can do is wait. Wait and try to prepare.

Waiting. Preparing.

Feels awful.

But we’ve gone through these changes before. And oh how blessed I feel for them. Oh how I would never go back to the way things were before.

We’ll have more conversations like these over the next several months. Some better. Some worse. More times when M will have to find the reassuring words. More times when they’ll have to come from me.

But I know it will be ok.

~~~~~
linking up with Shell at Things I Can’t Say to pour my heart out.

also linking up with YeahWrite for the hangout.
~~~~~

note: I wrote this post in February, at the height of morning sickness, exhaustion, and all of the typical first-trimester woes. I’m feeling much better these days, although these worries, they still crop up on occasion.

Most weeks, we run.

From home to work to home to dance class to grocery store to a whole assortment of miscellaneous errands.

We run without thinking.

We run within our small community, rarely venturing more than ten miles away from home. Never venturing over the bridge to the wealth of culture, sights, and fun in ‘the city.’

I tell people that I live in Washington DC. It sounds cooler than saying I live in Virginia.

But the truth is, I work in Washington DC. I do not live there.

And it’s a darn shame.

But yesterday, M and I both had the day off from work. In the morning, we sold our house.

(Yes, it’s official. We’re still living here for the next two weeks, but it’s not ours anymore. We are officially sellers. And renters. We keep joking about that renting part. Someone suggested we throw a keg party. But, ya know, I do want to get our security deposit back.)

In the afternoon, we ran a few errands. But we also stopped to have lunch. We reminisced as we packed old cards and photos.

We relaxed.

And in that relaxation, we stopped running.

And when we stopped running… well, the possibilities seemed endless.

Last night, we broke our pizza night routine and dined out at a new-to-us restaurant a bit further from home.

And this morning, we skipped dance class and ventured into the city for the National Cathedral’s Flower Mart.

I don’t normally like to skip dance class. Routines are important and, more importantly, Baby loves dance class.

But she also loves flowers.

And festivals. And watching other people dance.

And carousels.

Apparently this routine-breaking is contagious. Because Baby… well she caught the bug. All morning, she traveled around on Daddy’s shoulders. A method of transportation she has traditionally hated. But this weekend? It’s the way to travel.

For date night tonight (a rare moment out to celebrate our anniversary) we’re headed back into the city. And who knows, maybe we’ll be back again in the morning.

Go break your routine. Do it. You know you want to.

You’ll be glad you did.