Mama

Maren started saying "Mama" about a week ago. Before you start in with the "how sweet" and the "aah"s, I must add that the only time she ever says "Mama" is when she's upset, and the word comes out more as a whine as she seeks refuge from whatever evil her older brothers and sister are trying to inflict on her.

For Maren, Mama is refuge. I'm the person she seeks out when she needs something, when she's hungry, when she's tired, when she wants a snuggle. Dada is much more fun to play with, and he sneaks her grape juice. Her big sister Annie will tote her around when she needs to get somewhere, But for this eleven month-old, Mama is where it's at.

I don't mean to sound conceited, but Maren isn't the only one who feels this way. When Isaac was in the hospital, he wanted me with him, the big kids wanted me at home with them, and Maren would have surgically attached herself to my hip had it been possible. On Halloween night, for example, I ran home to trick or treat with Bryce, Annie and Maren while Isaac was in surgery. I wanted to be back by the time he woke up. I spent the whole time I was home with at least two kids touching me. Annie started sobbing and angrily giving me the 3rd degree when it was time for me to go back. Isaac was awake and asking for me when I arrived at the recovery area. I felt like I was being pulled in a million different directions. Or at least four.

A couple of weeks ago, we took my mother-in-law on a drive to the beach. Our van seats seven, and I gave up shotgun so she didn't have to sit between Bryce and Annie in the way back. For most of the trip, each of them had their heads on my shoulders and their hands all over me. In order to get comfortable, I put my legs up on the armrests of the captain chairs in the middle row. Immediately, Isaac and Maren reached their hands out and grabbed my feet. No one told me that I became a magnet when I became a mother, but it's true.

All this love--it does something to you. It's a pretty heady thing to be the center of four, no, actually five people's universes. It's also kind of suffocating. Yesterday, when I got done with a 20-mile run, Maren was on my hip, begging to drink from my oh-so-sweaty breast, before I even had a chance to grab a drink myself. Right now she's pulling on my toes, trying to drag me away from the computer desk.

But it's also very temporary. These kids, before I know it, are going to grow up, and I'm not going to be their one and only anymore. I love my mom-- she's my best friend now that I'm an adult, but we live more than a thousand miles from each other, and when I look at her, it's not with the adoring gaze I get from Isaac. I'm not telling her every ten seconds how beautiful she is or that she's my very best friend in the entire universe like Annie does to me at least ten times a day. I know that ten years from now, I'll be lucky to have Annie recognize my existence. It's a good thing Eddie will always adore me, because it's going to be a big change to go from idol to pariah in the eyes of my children.

Which brings me to the question of what I'm going to do when I'm not so needed anymore. I just don't know. I always thought I'd go back to school and go back to work as soon as my fourth baby was in preschool. I'm not sure that's the right choice anymore. Life feels too full to add a PhD to the mix anytime in the near future. Should I have another baby and prolong the love-fest? Sometimes I think that's the easy way out, because it keeps me in the phase of life that I'm in now-- a phase that's comfortable and familiar, but not necessarily one that's best for the rest of my family in the long run. I want to live a life filled with purpose-- but I can't see what the guiding purpose will be after the next few years pass.

In the meantime-- I'll take adoration.