Seasons

Seasons of Nature. I relish Spring in Colorado. Maybe its because the winter feels so long or maybe its because there is a magic in the mountains, but the warmer days are glorious here. It is this time of year that I can start to enjoy my morning walks again. The sun shines into our window at 6 am, and I love to grab my Ipod and have an hour by myself, listening and walking, before our house starts to stir. It was on one of these walks last week that I was struck again by the idea of seasons. I thought about how I love spring and summer--playing in creeks, eating on the back deck, picnics at the park, wearing flip-flops and skirts, reading on the front porch, getting out the sprinklers. Mothering is infinitely easier for me when we can be outside and enjoy nature and freedom. My heart is lifted, the kids are happier, and my soul seems to be more alive.


And, yet, with the same breath, I know that my spring and summer days are limited. No matter what I do, the cooler days of fall and winter will be my reality again in just a few short months. And its true that fall holds pumpkins and brilliantly yellow leaves and winter holds cozy fires and snowmen, but those seasons are more difficult for me as a mom to thrive in. And, unfortunately for me, no amount of scheming or scrambling on my part will make the warmer days stay.


Seasons of Life. And on this same walk recently in the morning quiet, I was talking to the Lord about the (possible) ending for us of this season with babies and toddlers. I was processing this idea that I may never be pregnant again, that I may never hold an infant of my own, that the highchair may soon be permanently retired, and that Ava might be the last toddler that cuddles on my lap while drinking a bottle of milk. And its a bittersweet processing for me as a mother, because despite the chaos, I love these days of small children. I love hearing the just-developing language, love playing in sandboxes, love arranging playdates in the middle of the day, love their dependence on me, love swinging them around on my hips, love how they long for my attention and comfort, love watching their exploration of the world, love how little their bodies are, love their questions and insights and wonder. And the thought of that forever being gone for our family is something to grieve, something to let go, something to wrestle with.


And, unlike the physical seasons, I don't know what to expect in the next seasons of mothering. Maybe there will be some winter months or maybe each season will just be a better spring than the last. Regardless, there's no stopping the changes. The next season of parenting my growing children is a train on a downward slope, and there's nothing I can do to freeze that train from progressing forward. Despite the very real emotion that protests the hardness of this stage, I still want to be fully present in the moments with my small children that I am given. I want to choose to go have waterfights in the front driveway and to savor the smell of Ava's hair as she sits on my lap. I want to slow down and pay attention when Kelty wants me to watch her dance, and I want to say "yes" more to Cade's requests to scooter-races. I want to be a woman who embraces fully the things that matter and who lets the rest slip away without apology.

Because--whether I like it or not-- the next season is, indeed, coming. And when I am further down this mothering road, I don't want to regret that I didn't relish the baby years to their fullest. When I am living in an empty-nest, I don't want to regret that I didn't enjoy the noise of a full house of pre-schoolers. When the winter days arrive, I don't want to regret that I didn't play outside more in the summer.

Because each season has its own gifts to offer and its own gifts to let go.



I write this post with the full realization that obviously if we are led to adoption or parenting more children in the future, we are open to that and would embrace that. It's just that right now, we're thinking that three is a pretty perfect number for our family.