Morning hour

 It's quiet in the house. All the kids are asleep. I peel myself out of bed, careful not to disturb the long limbs of my two seven-year-olds who have made their way in to sleeping with me. My son stretches horizontally across the foot of the bed, leaving my own legs with no clear lane. I'm awake. 

My heart feels so full and happy. I love when my kids are with me. 

A couple weeks ago a new friend of mine asked to interview me for her podcast. It's called First, The Worst and it's about the worst time in your life. Sure, I said. I'd love to. Then I spent a little time wondering what I would choose as the worst time of my life. Do you know what you would choose?

The feeling that rose up in me was the way it felt the year I was getting divorced--the way I felt about losing my kids. For more than a full year I could not think about it or talk about it without feeling short of breath and full of pure heartache. Agony. Fear. Dread. My mind would not actually let me imagine it. Something like a black hole of nothingness would descend and I would want to curl up in a ball. Not have my kids with me for 50% of their lives? What? I can't. I can't do it. I sobbed my way through many a therapy session, trying to get ready for it. When it came, the time to go fully 50/50, I hated it. I was hardly ever home because I could not bear to be in the quiet house. When I finally did start spending time at home, I spent a lot of hours paralyzed on the couch, numbing myself with TV and food.

Do I live for my kids? No. I wouldn't describe it like that.

Do I feel more whole when I'm with my kids? Not exactly.

Do I prefer to be with my kids over being alone? Not always.

What is this feeling?

I have felt it at different times since becoming a mom. Often when they're asleep. My nervous system breathes a sigh of relief and I can sit in the golden silence that only exists in these moments. My babies are with me. My babies are safe. My babies can rest because they know I am here. I am at peace. I am so grateful to be their mama.