Motherhood Personified

Norah Jones wafts softly through the room as I putter around and clean up from breakfast. I look up from the sink and glance out the window. Augie, who had been playing in his fort, is now swinging at full force, his legs pumping back and forth, back and forth, his hair blowing wildly from the speed.

No need for help to get on. No need for a starter push. He did it all himself, and there he is basking in the glory of his independence.

I beam with pride until a lump settles in my throat. A four-year-old-big-boy is the baby when another has not yet come along.

The moment is filled with with beauty and sweetness and maybe just a little heartache.