I can worry about money. I can worry about what will happen to my body when it doesn’t get to exercise for six weeks. I can worry about getting enough sleep or getting the baby’s room done or putting away the Christmas decorations before my parents come into town or whether the brownie I ate will upset Ian’s tummy.
What I choose to do:
- Marvel at his tiny, soft feet
- Kiss his lips
- Dance to Michael Jackson with Ian in the Moby, practicing our rhythm
- Looking out the window at the courtyard
- Massaging his back while he feeds
- Nap in the middle of the day when the laundry needs folding
- Watch documentaries at 3am while my fussy baby decides not to latch on for unknown reasons
I will never get this time back. He will never be this little again. Experiencing a miracle makes worrying about all the things I can’t control seem a little (lot) asinine.