Connected

What a weird feeling—having an extra twenty minutes to do whatever I want. Usually my days are planned ahead and packed with the tasks that need to be accomplished: feed the boys; change their diapers; wipe their tears; feed them again; pull the older out of the (formerly) sleeping baby’s crib; calm the toddler’s fit as he protests being prevented from snuggling his brother; rock the now-screaming infant back to sleep; feed them again; take the toddler to the park so he doesn’t go crazy running laps in our apartment; feed; change; comfort; repeat. Each day, if I’m lucky, I get maybe an hour or two where the boys align their naps and I’m able to work on my research or take care of tasks for my church responsibilities or clean the house. (Or consume a pint of ice cream in blessed silence.) Sometimes, though, that doesn’t happen and I juggle two tiny boys, sometimes both crying in my arms at the same time while I rock them. Sometimes I throw my own tears into the mix just for good measure.

But here I am at the Toronto airport with my flight delayed twenty minutes. I’ve already gone through customs and security, pumped and eaten, and found the gate. And here I am. Alone. Nobody clamoring for my time or my comfort or my attention. Nobody I need to keep from destroying all the store displays or running the wrong way on the moving sidewalk while we wait for an extra twenty minutes. What a strange feeling. I’m almost like one of the thousands of other people milling around the airport with no tiny humans in tow. It’s been a while since I’ve had this type of independence. And on one hand it’s nice—I can pull out my phone or computer without a toddler begging to use it; I can sit still without having to bounce an infant; I can let my brain engage in something that requires sustained thought without worrying about being interrupted in thirty seconds.

But we also need to talk about the fact that all I can do is think about my boys back home. What does this mom do with her newfound freedom? Pour all her obsessive, baby-focused thoughts into writing. Because I’m terrified for the youngest one who is only six weeks old and is refusing to take the bottles of lovingly-pumped breastmilk I’ve left him. In the time I’ve been away and pumped 14 ounces of milk in tiny airport vestibules, my tiny human back home has only drunk 2.5 ounces. And that only with many tears and ear-splitting screams. *Deep breath* Why did we think this trip to present at a conference in Vancouver was a good idea? Although, when I planned the trip, I had anticipated taking my baby with me, and only later discovered there would not be enough time to get his passport after his birth. Silly international regulations, causing my baby to starve and me to spend my 20 minutes of free time only able to write in anxiety about how I miss my boys.

But I think that’s part of motherhood—the perpetual connection to your children and inability to ever truly be away from them. The inability to ever completely relax without worrying—at least in some part of your mind—about someone else’s well-being. There’s part of your thoughts and heart that remain with your children, praying for them, wondering how they are doing, worrying about them, missing them. I don’t think my ability to compartmentalize has ever been this frail. I mean, I can’t wait to go home and hold my little boys again—and I haven’t even made it to my final destination yet. I don’t think my mind and heart will every be entirely mine again now that I’m a mother. And I don’t want them to be—I revel in this glorious connection of souls; the sacred tying of my heart inextricably and eternally to the lives of perfect, tiny beings.

It is that beautiful connection, the profound interdependence of mother and child, that lends meaning and joy to the diaper changes and the tears and the night feedings. These are my tiny humans, and they need me. And I need them—deeply and profoundly and with my whole, uncompartmentalized heart and mind.