It’s been six weeks and our baby boy has barely been put down.
He gets transferred from arm to open arm – snuggled in a variety of poses, smattered with kisses.
At night, he sleeps in the crook of my arm – our breathing in symmetry.
In the morning, the girls and I stand over him, marveling at every yawn, every sneeze, every half-smile.
Our 10-year-old carries the baby around with confidence and responsibility. Meanwhile, our 7-year-old races to help with any baby-related task. Our 4-year-old sings lullabies dramatically and can’t get enough time with him in her arms (“Can I PLEASE hold the baby?“).
It is so very, very good to have a baby in the house again. We all sense the sweetness (and perhaps? the finality) of this season. Every day that passes seems like it could be the last time we are here in this sacred space.
I may never have another scrunchy-nosed baby, fast asleep on my chest. I may never see my husband walk the backyard with a teeny baby in his arms again.
So I let my life fall into slow-motion just a bit. I linger in the mornings and try to memorize his tiny features. Ironically, I take fewer pictures…because he is always/always in my arms. And I thank the Lord that He granted us this priceless gift of babyhood one more time.
One of our neighbors recently found out she is pregnant and our family was discussing the possibility that it could be twins. “I hope not,” remarked our 10-year-old resolutely, “that wouldn’t be fair for them to have TWO babies.”
Needless to say, we certainly aren’t taking this fourth baby for granted. He is adored in every way.